Stage Fright - Kim
by Fanfictionpreservation
Summary: Paul is attacked on stage and the boys have to deal with the consequences. By Kim not me
1. Stage Fright 1

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

I would like to extend a great big thank you to Ms. Moonlight for her invaluable help and advice. THANK YOU!

**Stage Fright chapter one**

"God, it's bloody cold here in Washington," Ringo said, turning up the collar of his coat as he hurried to the doors of the stadium, passing hordes of screaming fans.

"We're in Boston, sod," John Lennon corrected behind him.

"Oh, is that the place…"

George and Paul chuckled, following the two older Beatles. They only barely managed to escape the groping female hands as they made their way from their car to the stadium.

Once safely inside, they were rushed to their dressing room.

When they finally got there, all four simultaneously collapsed on the sofa, which was in the centre of the room.

"They're all getting pottier by the day," John commented, referring to the screaming fans outside. Even though massive walls parted them from the fans, the tremendous noise outside was still very much audible.

Their tour manager Neil and roadie Mal entered the room. "All right, lads?" Neil asked. "D'you want me to bring you anything? You don't have to go up till about another two hours or so."

All four Beatles sighed; another long, dull wait ahead of them.

"Nah, that's all right, Nell," John replied, staring at the television on the other side of the room. "George, turn on the TV for me."

"Why me?"

"Cause you're the youngest!" John replied matter-of-factly.

"Sod off! Do it yerself," George retorted.

"Paul, switch it on," John ordered.

"Forget it, mate," Paul replied decisively.

John batted his eyelashes at Ringo in a final attempt to get his way. "Ringo, could you…?"

"Get on!"

John sighed despondently. "Youngsters these days…" he said in a mock upper-class accent as he got up. Then he simply sat back down. "Sod it then."

Once again the four of them simply sat and stared into nothingness.

"I can bring you some fan mail if you like," Neil suggested.

"Yeah alright," Paul said. "We don't have anythin' better to do anyway. Maybe we can have a laugh or two."

Mal and Neil disappeared and returned five minutes later, carrying a large mail bag each. "There you are, lads. Enjoy!" Neil said and he and Mal were off again, closing the door behind them.

"Ta, fellas!" Paul called after them.

"Right, let's see what we've got here then," John mumbled, his head in one of the bags, digging through the letters.

Soon they all sat about in the room, reading letters out loud and laughing their heads off. They were taking turns reading them and now it was Paul's turn. He opened one, skimmed through it and his face blanched.

"What? Another 'death to the Beatles letter'?" George asked laconically.

"Yeah, something like that," Paul muttered, his face still pale. "Only this one's directed to me."

John leaned over and tried, unsuccessfully, to read it without his glasses. "Well let's hear it then."

Slowly Paul started reading:

_Dear Paul _

_I hate you. I resent the way you look, the way you sing, the way you talk, smile and wave. I hate the way you steal other people's girlfriends, like you stole mine. She met you once and she told me you were really nice to her, she also told me she wanted to break up with me, because she wanted to marry you. You took her away from me. I think boyfriends all over the world would be happy to get rid of you. I think I may just do them a favour._

John snorted. "What a stupid fucker." He looked at Paul, who still looked somewhat pale and he squeezed his shoulder gently. "Aye, we've had letters like these before, Paulie. They're just crazy people, out of their heads you know."

Unfortunately, these things were becoming more and more common lately. They had started receiving frightening letters over a year ago, mostly from angry boyfriends and religious groups. At first they'd been terrified, but as time went by and nothing serious happened, the fear gradually lessened. Still, they didn't particularly enjoy getting them either.

Put out by their latest death threat, the Beatles abandoned their fan mail and went about finding other things to do. John watched Paul sit down in a corner of the room and strum his guitar. He still looked a bit pale and ill-at-ease. John made a mental note to mention the disturbing letter to Mal and Neil before they went on stag


	2. Stage Fright 2

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

**Stage Fright chapter two**

An hour later, the letter had long been forgotten.

Ringo was sitting next to John, nervously fiddling with his rings, sliding them up and down his fingers.

John was trying to read a newspaper, but his eyes kept being drawn to the movement to his right. Finally he sighed and swatted Ringo over the head with his paper. "Stop that!"

"Sorry, I can't help it! I'm just so nervous for tonight," Ringo replied, standing up and starting to pace up and down the room. Again, John's eyes were drawn to the movement.

He sighed and put the newspaper down. "Well, that's no improvement," he muttered. George snorted and hid his face behind the magazine he was pretending to read.

Paul poked in his head from the adjoining bathroom. "Aye? Why are you so nervous then?"

"I have me first lead! I'm gonna be singin' all on me own!" Ringo said desperately. Tonight was the first time he had to perform 'Act Naturally' live on stage.

"Ringo mate, you'll do fine!" John said, straightening his newspaper.

"I'm a drummer, John, not a singer! Me voice is horrible, I'll probably go all out of key!" Ringo wailed.

Paul emerged from the bathroom, wearing a black turtleneck and comfortable jeans, and went to stand next to Ringo. He looked at him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, Ring, it's alright. I'll be singin' the chorus with ye you know, you won't be alone," he said gently.

"Yeah, and nobody'll hear your racket anyway with all the screamin' and shoutin', so you can fuck up all you want," John added.

"Gee, thanks," Ringo muttered sarcastically.

"And if the worst should happen, we're all up there with you, Ring," George spoke up.

Ringo looked at each of them in turn and suddenly felt a rush of affection towards them. "Right…cheers, lads."

John eyed him suspiciously. "Aye, you're not goin' all soft on us, are ye?"

"Bugger off!" Ringo said, turning away.

John smirked and contently turned his attention back to his newspaper.

Then their manager Brian Epstein walked in. "Time to get ready, boys. You'll be up in about twenty minutes."

John threw his newspaper aside. "Crap, I'll never get to finish this bloody paper!"


	3. Stage Fright 3

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

**Stage Fright chapter three**

"And now we would like to do something we don't often do; give someone a chance who doesn't often sing. And here he is, all outta key and nervous…Ringo!" Ringo announced himself.

The crowd screamed and the Beatles started in on 'Act Naturally.'

As he sang the chorus with Ringo, Paul turned a little so he was able to see Ringo and still sing into the microphone. They locked eyes for a split second and Paul quickly winked to let Ringo know he was doing fine. Ringo smiled back at him.

At the end of the song, Paul looked back at Ringo again and gave him a thumbs-up. "Thank you, Ringo! Well done!" he spoke into the microphone and the crowd cheered. Both John and George held an arm out towards Ringo as though they were presenting something.

Ringo flushed, feeling rather chuffed and bowed his head.

They did three more songs: 'All My Lovin', 'I'm a Loser' and 'Ticket to Ride' and after the last one, they bowed deeply. Straightening up, Paul spoke into the microphone again. "Thank you, thanks everybody. It was wonderful to be here. Ta."

Smiling, he removed his bass from his neck and held it in his hand as he waved to the ecstatic crowd.

Suddenly, Ringo saw something move out of the corner of his eye. He looked to his left and saw an unknown man sprint up onto the stage and run in the direction of where Paul was standing. Ringo instantly knew something was about to go terribly wrong.

"Paul!" he shouted, leaping up from his stool, hoping his friend would hear him over the tremendous noise of the screaming crowd.

Both George and John whipped around and also saw the man dash over to Paul. To his horror, John noticed something glistening in the man's hand. "Christ!" was all he was able to utter.

Upon hearing his name, Paul had also turned around. Unfortunately, by that time, the man had already reached him. Paul's eyes went wide as he caught a flash of a contorted face which belonged to a figure that was about to crash into him.

Dropping his bass, he brought up his arms in order to protect his head and torso and almost instantly felt an incredible pain in his arm as the weapon the figure was holding slashed into it. He managed to let out a cry in pain before the heavy body crashed into him and he literally felt himself soar through the air.

"Paul!" Both John and George screamed as they simultaneously ran to where Paul had been bashed off the stage.

In the meantime, Mal and a few security men had stormed onto the scene and grabbed the man who was kneeling on the edge of the stage, grinning wickedly. He didn't even resist as the security men dragged him backstage. "Goodbye, Paul," Ringo heard him say as he ran towards where he'd last seen Paul.

When they saw the famous Beatle topple over the edge of the stage, the crowd gasped and moved as one to break his fall.

Paul felt himself being caught by dozens of hands, preventing him from crashing down to the ground. His arm hurt and he could feel warm blood ooze from the wound. He felt himself being carried over the heads of the crowd, something that would later be known as 'crowd surfing'.

Suddenly however, hands were starting to pull at him and grope him. He tried to push away the dozens of hands that were touching and scratching him. "Stop it!" he yelled. "Let go of me!" But his frantic shouts were drowned out by the hysteric screams.

From back on stage, John, Ringo and George stared wide-eyed as they saw Paul being carried to the centre of the crowd. They could see Paul was not enjoying this at all, to say the least. They saw the hands ripping at his clothes, pulling on his arms and legs, tugging on his hair.

"Christ, they'll tear him apart!" John said in a panicked voice. "Bloody do something!" he yelled towards the policemen who had been lined up right beneath the stage, to prevent overexcited fans from climbing on. They had not, however, expected a Beatle to come flying down into the crowd. For a moment, they stood, undecided. Then, as though on cue, they all moved into the massive screaming crowd simultaneously.

To the other three Beatles' horror, Paul suddenly disappeared, having been pulled down in between thousands of fans...


	4. Stage Fright 4

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

**Stage Fright chapter four**

"Paul!" all three screamed in unison. They stood there, watching helplessly. Then suddenly John flung down his guitar and almost dove in after Paul, only to be grabbed back by George and Ringo.

"John! Don't! They'll kill you!" George shouted at him.

John struggled to break free. "I don't care, I have to do somethin'!" Dragging the other two along with him, he moved to the edge of the stage.

Ringo exchanged a glance with George; they both seemed to be thinking the same thing: when the bloody hell did he get so strong?!

George, hampered by the guitar that was still around his neck, let go of John and practically tore the instrument from his body.

As Ringo held onto John, George carelessly threw the guitar aside and tackled John. They fell down in a heap, John at the bottom, George on top.

"Aye, get off me!" John shouted, trying to push his two band mates off him.

"John, leaping in after Paul is not going to do either of us any good!" George yelled in John's face. "You'll both be killed…" he added more quietly.

John stopped struggling as his brain registered what George had just said. He sighed, knowing he was right. "Bloody hell. Alright, get off me, you queers!"

George and Ringo got up, allowing John to stand up too. John glanced at the spot where Paul had been swallowed up and suddenly dashed to one of the microphones on the stage. He grabbed it and started to shout in it. "Leave Paul the fuck alone! Get away from him!" He repeated this several more times, his shouts each time growing more desperate.

He was relieved to see part of the crowd trying to comply. They tried to back away from somewhere in the centre, only to be pushed back by fans behind them, who were desperate to catch a glimpse of the fallen Beatle. He could see a few birds trying to form a protective circle around something on the ground, that something apparently being Paul. But they were attacked by dozens of other birds who wanted to get near him.

John's relief turned into dismay as he watched. "Christ, it'll be a massacre…" he muttered.

As he continued to peer into the crowd, he could see Mal and Neil running around like crazy near the exits. He assumed that they too were trying to find Paul.

Paul was in agony. His entire body ached; he'd lost count of how many times he'd been stood on. Some girls had tried to help him up, but they had just been pushed down on top of him. Numerous hands were still pulling at him, almost tearing him apart. He was being crushed and it was getting so hard to breathe…

A sudden kick to his head caused black dots to dance in front of his eyes. He threw up his uninjured arm to try to protect his head and desperately tried to suck in some air, knowing he was on the brink of unconsciousness. However, to no avail. Moments later he went lip, no longer feeling or caring what happened to him

"Look!" Ringo suddenly pointed. "The police are finally getting somewhere!"

"It's about fuckin time!" John said.

Sure enough, the ten thousand fans were slowly herded to the exits and the police gained more ground.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please be so kind as to move towards the nearest exit, calmly and slowly," a voice from a loud speaker echoed around the stadium.

"Fuck slowly," John muttered, peering into the diminishing crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of his fallen band mate.

Finally, the retreating crowd revealed still bodies across the floor here and there. Most of them were already getting up or were just crying hysterically. However, there was one shape lying deathly still, curled up into a protective ball, one arm protecting its head, the other outstretched.

John, George and Ringo recognized the figure instantly. "Paul!" they shouted anxiously. This time George and Ringo followed John as he jumped off stage and rushed over to the still figure.

As they drew nearer, Ringo pulled in a sharp breath. Only thin strips of clothing still covered the upper part of Paul's body. His bare skin revealed numerous bruises and scratches which looked like they'd been made by finger nails. Blood flowed copiously from a huge gash in his arm.

They knelt by his side and hesitated. What were they supposed to do?

"Paul?" Ringo asked quietly.

No response.

"We've got to get him a doctor," George said, panicking. Ringo and George looked at John, who was staring stonily at Paul's battered body.

Ringo put a hand on his shoulder. "John? I'm going to see if I can get him a doctor, alright?"

John didn't respond or show any sign of understanding.

Ringo looked at George, who shrugged and looked worriedly at Paul's pale face. Ringo gently squeezed John's shoulder. "It'll be all right, John," he said. He met George's eyes, telling him to stay with John and Paul. Knowing there was always a doctor on call at a stadium or theatre during big concerts, he dashed off.


	5. Stage Fright 5

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

**Stage Fright chapter five**

John continued to stare. _Don't be dead, Paul. Please don't be dead…_ he silently pleaded. He slowly reached an arm out and touched Paul's hair, which felt soft but damp. He moved down to carefully touch Paul's bare arm, it felt cold. He shook him, gently. "Paul? Paul, wake up…"

He saw the growing pool of blood next to Paul's left arm and realized they had to do something to stop the bleeding. He looked up at George.

"I think we should tie it off with something," George said hesitantly.

"And what would that something be exactly?" John was about to snap at him, when suddenly an idea struck him. He yanked his tie off his neck. "Right, where do we tie this bloody thing?" he muttered.

"Somewhere above the gash I'd imagine…" George said, his voice trailing off.

"Oh, sod it!" John said impatiently and tied his tie tightly around Paul's injured arm, just above the deep gash. To his surprise, the steady flow of blood that had been seeping from the wound actually seemed to slow down a bit as a result.

However, Paul hadn't even flinched throughout John's actions, which George thought was rather worrisome.

Still, John felt a twinge of hope; Paul's chest was steadily moving up and down, indicating that he was at least alive and breathing.

Encouraged by this fact, he slowly and carefully turned Paul over onto his back. He gasped at the sight of Paul's chest. It seemed strangely 'dented' and was black and blue.

Noticing again that Paul's upper body was near to naked, he shrugged off his Beatle jacket and covered Paul with it. He then bent forward and peered into Paul's pale, bruised face. He narrowed his eyes. He could've sworn he saw Paul's eyes move._ I've got to get me better contacts!  
_  
He gently tapped Paul's cheek and squinted into his mate's face. "Paul? Can you hear me?"

There was a sigh, followed by a soft groan.

John bent further forward so that his nose was only inches from Paul's. Now he could see that Paul's eyes were indeed moving! "Macca! Macca, wake up," he coaxed, reverting to a nickname he sometimes used when he felt particularly fond of Paul. "Can you hear me, Paul?"

Paul slowly became aware of a voice uttering his name. _Leave me alone!_ he thought. Somebody tapped his cheeks. He sighed. _Bloody hell_. Then, almost instantly, he felt a sharp pain in his arm, a searing pain in his chest and his body ached all over. He let out a soft groan.

Again, he was being called.

He forced his eyelids open. His eyes slowly focused and…he was startled out of his wits by a looming, squinting face hovering about an inch from his nose. "Christ!" Paul croaked, trying to push himself up on his elbows, but only ending up gasping in pain.

"Paul!" John cried, relief evident in his voice. "Paul, it's alright, it's only me!"

Paul blinked. "Bloody hell, Lennon. DON'T do that," he muttered weakly when he recognized his friend. "What happen…oh Christ," Paul interrupted himself, as the images came flooding back to him. He lay back down, suddenly feeling nauseous.

"Are you alright, Paul?" George asked, concerned.

"Do I bloody look alright?" Paul whispered irritably, and then sighed, grimacing. He was rapidly beginning to feel worse. "Sorry, Geo."

"S'okay, Paul."

"It hurts to breathe…" Paul murmured, his eyes rolling shut. Indeed, his breathing began to sound more laboured.

Suddenly fearing again for his friend's life, John grasped Paul's cold right hand. "Paul?" he asked.

Paul's eyes opened only slightly, his head was feeling as though it was about to explode. "Wha'?"

"Just checkin' you were still with us."

The corners of Paul's mouth turned upwards, just a little bit. "S-sorry to disappoint you," he whispered faintly. He shivered. "I'm cold."

John looked around. "What the bloody hell is taking Ringo?!"

As though on cue, Ringo came running towards them with Neil, Mal and Brian in his wake.

"Well? Where's that bloody doctor, son?" John asked, looking at Ringo.

"He's on his way, he was patching up a girl who didn't seem to be in very good shape either," Ringo replied, kneeling next to George. "He told us to keep him awake at all costs."

"And an ambulance is on its way, Paul," Neil piped up.

Paul nodded gratefully.

"How are you feeling, Paul?" Brian asked.

Paul's lips moved, but no sound came out. John bent forward to listen and a slow smile spread across his face. "Close enough, mate," he replied, sniggering.

The others looked at him questioningly.

"He says he feels like he's been trampled by a herd of elephants," John explained.

"More like a herd of mammoths," George remarked dryly.

Paul's teeth started to chatter. George thought that had to be a result from both the blood loss and the shock. He too pulled off his jacket and laid it over Paul. Ringo, Mal and Neil followed his example. Brian used his to pillow Paul's head.

"Ta," Paul said faintly, his eyes drooping.

John squeezed his hand. "Hang in there, Macca."

Paul was shivering uncontrollably now, which had a bad effect on his chest injury. He clenched his eyes shut against the pain; every shiver sent a pain through his chest as though somebody was beating him with a hammer.

"Paul?" John asked; he was frightened by his friend's violent shaking. He was afraid he might be having a seizure of some kind.

Paul didn't open his eyes. His lips were pressed together tightly, determined not to let a single sound escape.

"Excuse me," Ringo heard someone say behind him. Relief swept through him as he realized the doctor had arrived.

George, Ringo, Mal and Neil stood up to make room. John was about to do the same, but Paul held on to his hand tightly. He looked down at Paul, who had opened his eyes briefly, and saw the fear in his large, hazel brown eyes.

John brought his lips to Paul's ear. "It's ok, Paul. We're all here for ye," he whispered and received a soft squeeze in reply.

The doctor talked to Paul as though nothing serious was going on, whilst he subjected him to a short, but thorough examination.

Meanwhile, they could hear sirens drawing near. Brian was off to guide them to where Paul lay. A few minutes later he and two ambulance attendants burst in, carrying a stretcher.

They stole a few glances at John, George and Ringo, but when the doctor started to talk to them rapidly, they turned their attention to Paul.

"He's in hypovolaemic shock, possible internal injuries, head trauma, rib fractures," the doctor was saying, more to himself than anything. The other Beatles exchanged worried glances.

The two attendants quickly strapped Paul to a backboard and then lifted him onto a stretcher. All the while, Paul kept his eyes clenched shut and tightened his grip on John's hand, still shivering.

However, suddenly John felt Paul's hand go limp. He looked at Paul and saw that his hand wasn't the only thing that had gone limp. "Aye!" John exclaimed in a sudden panic. "Aye, he's out!"

The doctor looked down at the injured Beatle worriedly, just as Brian pulled him aside. "How does it look?" he asked quietly.

"Not too good, hypovolaemic shock alone can be fatal," the doctor replied grimly as he watched the ambulance personnel push the stretcher with Paul on it and John still by his side towards one of the exits. The doctor quickly followed, giving the attendants instructions as he went. George, Mal and Neil hurried to keep up.

Brian looked up to see Ringo looking at him with a questioning gaze. Brian knew what he wanted to know, but he didn't have the heart to tell him. Instead, he quickly turned his head away.

That was all Ringo needed to know. He shook his head sadly and quickly ran off in pursuit of the others.


	6. Stage Fright 6

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

**Stage Fright chapter six**

Seven hours later, John Lennon quietly opened the door to Paul's hospital room. He took a peek inside and saw a still figure lying on a bed in the middle of the room. However, he was suddenly pushed inside entirely by somebody who had been leaning on his back. He noisily stumbled into the room and turned around to see who the culprit was.

George and Ringo both pointed an accusing finger at each other, looking back at him guiltily. "Sorry about that," they said simultaneously.

"Shhhh!" John shushed them. He turned back around to face the person on the bed, but was startled to find a pair of big brown eyes already staring at him.

"Oh…you're awake," John said stupidly.

"It's hard not to be with all the racket you fellas are making," Paul replied groggily, but with a smirk.

"Cheeky bugger," Ringo remarked with a grin. He was relieved to see Paul in much better shape than he'd been in a few hours ago.

All three approached the bed. Paul was lying flat on his back, his left arm was heavily bandaged. An IV, which was attached to a nearly empty bag of blood, had been inserted into his right hand. They noticed, to their relief that some colour had returned to his cheeks.

"Aye, nice moody look you got there, son," George remarked, indicating the dark bruises just above Paul's left eyebrow, on his left cheekbone and on his right temple.

Paul smirked again, but didn't reply.

"So how are you feeling, Paulie?" Ringo asked seriously.

"Better," Paul replied truthfully. "They stuffed me with a load of painkillers, I think." He tried to sit up, using his good arm, but gasped in pain instead. "Bloody hell," he muttered, panting.

"Ye've got two broken ribs, sod. You should stay down," John chided him.

"Yes, mother," Paul replied, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "Did the doctors tell you anythin' else? They didn't tell me a thing."

"Well, they said it was a miracle you didn't have any serious internal injuries, otherwise you probably wouldn't have made it," John told him, quickly pushing the thought from his mind. "The gash in your arm needed quite a lot of stitches, but they said no permanent damage was done and it should be healed within a couple of weeks. Other than that you just have a bunch of scratches and bruises and a mild concussion. Yer ribs'll probably take the longest to heal, about six weeks, I think it was."

"Oh…" Paul responded gloomily. He did not like the prospect of having to stay in hospital for six long weeks at all.

Ringo felt sorry for his friend. As a child he'd been in and out of hospital for years and he knew how dull and uncomfortable hospital stays were. "Aye, cheer up, Paulie! We've got good news too, you know."

"Well, let's have it then," Paul said expectantly.

"You'll probably be released from hospital in a day or two."

Paul's face brightened considerably. "You're not being soft, are ye?"

Ringo looked at him in mock astonishment. "Me? Soft? You insult me, my dear man!"

"Oh, sod off!" Paul said tiredly, then yawned.

"Well, there's not much more they can do for ye, you know," George spoke up. "They're only keeping you here to make sure there won't be any complications. You just need lots of rest to heal up and there's really no reason why you can't do that at home. Besides, they need beds," he added as an afterthought.

Paul seemed lost in thought for a moment, a smile touching his lips. Then his eyes widened slightly in fear as he remembered something. "What happened to the fuckin' bastard that landed me here in the first place? Did they get him?" he asked anxiously.

John rested a hand on Paul's shoulder. "Yeah, Macca. They got him," John replied, anger flaring up inside him. How much he would like to get his hands on that fuckin' maniac…

"Good," Paul said, relieved. He yawned again and his eyes began to droop.

John squeezed his shoulder. "Right then, we'll be off."

"Cheers, lads," Paul said drowsily.

"We'll see you later Paul," George said, as they headed for the door.

Paul's eyes suddenly snapped open. "Aye, what about the concerts then?"

"Sod the concerts, Paul," John replied over his shoulder.

"Yes, mother," Paul replied once more as the others filed out of the room. He was asleep within minutes.


	7. Stage Fright 7

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

I'd like to thank Carol for her help with the medical stuff! So THANK YOU, Carol! I really appreciate it! :o)

**Stage Fright chapter seven**

Paul waved at the crowd and felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked at John, who was standing next to him. The look on his friend's face however, scared him. It was one of horror and mortal fear.

"John? What's wrong?" he asked, looking around him to see what had scared his friend so badly.

John mouthed something, but no sound came out.

Paul gripped his arm. "John! What's the matter?"

Slowly, John pointed at the side wings. Paul followed his finger and looked. He didn't see anything, except for George and Ringo who also seemed terrified.

"What's going on?" Paul asked more urgently, starting to feel a little afraid himself.

George and Ringo now also slowly pointed their fingers at something. Paul looked again and this time he saw a pair of angry red eyes staring at him from the shadows. The eyes seemed to be burning with pure hatred, hatred that was directed at him.

Paul involuntarily took a step backwards. He could literally feel the hot anger singe his skin.

The eyes drew nearer to him and now Paul was able to make out a dark form; the shape of a man. The man closed in on him.

Paul tried to move, but his feet seemed to be rooted to the spot. He watched with growing fear as the man approached him, slowly, determinedly, like a tiger stalking its prey.

As the figure stepped out of the shadows, Paul noticed something that caused his heart to skip a beat.

The man, his face contorted in extreme anger, was holding a huge butcher's knife in his hand.

Paul still was unable to move. "John! Help me!" he cried out.

However, John just stood, staring at him. He shook his head sadly, balefully.

Paul looked at him, incredulously. "John! Help me, please!" he shouted in a panic. "George, Ringo, anybody!"

But they all just stood and stared as the man came ever closer to Paul.

Finally, Paul managed to take a step backwards. He started to turn to run away, but was suddenly stopped by dozens of hands, holding him fast. Paul looked over his shoulder to see who had grabbed him.

Hundreds of girls were standing behind him, effectively blocking his escape route. Some of them had taken hold of his arms and legs, making it impossible for him to move.

"What are you doin'?!" Paul shouted at them, struggling in vain to break free. "Let me go! Please!"

The man was now standing in front of him. He raised the knife, preparing to strike.

"NO! Please!" Paul begged.

"Mr McCartney!"

The knife came down. It stabbed him in the chest…

"Mr McCartney!"

…in the abdomen…

"Paul!"

Paul's eyes snapped open, fighting off the hands that were holding him down. He struggled and screamed, oblivious to the searing pain in his chest and the pounding in his head. "No, let me go!"

"Give him two milligrams of Ativan!" a voice boomed.

Paul saw a woman with a syringe approach him and continued his desperate struggling.

However, as his eyes gradually adjusted to the bright lights overhead, his brain slowly took in his surroundings. He wasn't on stage at all, in fact, there weren't any girls surrounding him either. Nor was there a man with a butcher's knife trying to slaughter him.

"Mr McCartney, it's alright. You're in a hospital room," a calm and gentle voice spoke to him.

Paul looked up and saw a grey-haired male doctor standing over him and slowly it dawned on him that he'd only had a nightmare.

Two female nurses were standing on his other side. One of them was holding a now empty syringe.

The nurse with the syringe smiled at him and gently eased him back so that he was lying flat on his back again. "It's okay," she said soothingly, tenderly pushing the dark hair back that had been plastered to his forehead.

Paul suddenly became aware of the fact that he was drenched in sweat. He felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment and smiled weakly. "Sorry about the fuss," he apologized, the McCartney charm kicking in.

"That's quite alright, Mr McCartney," the doctor replied mildly, whilst he scribbled something on a clipboard. He looked up briefly and noticed one of the nurses staring at his patient with a peculiar expression on her face. His eyebrows knitted disapprovingly and he cleared his throat.

The nurse was startled out of her stupor and blushed. She glanced at Paul one last time and quickly left the room.

Paul however, was too dazed to notice. The sedative he'd been given had already started to take effect and he drifted off in a dreamless sleep.


	8. Stage Fright 8

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

**Stage Fright chapter eight**

Paul awoke with a start. He felt a little disoriented and blinked a couple of times.

"Aye, good morning sleepin' beauty," a gentle voice spoke, with a hint of sarcasm.

Paul turned his head and found John sitting in a chair beside his bed.

"Mornin'," Paul answered in a raspy voice. He wrinkled his nose at himself and cleared his throat. He glanced at the bedside cabinet to his right and noticed that one of the nurses had been thoughtful enough to leave him a cup of water. He carefully hoisted himself up on the elbow of his good arm, noting that his chest was feeling a little better. Probably another load of painkillers, he thought ruefully.

John helped him prop up his pillow against the headboard and Paul settled back against it. Then he reached for the cup, just as John was about to hand it to him. Paul nodded gratefully, put the cup to his lips and took a cautious sip. Raising an inquisitive eyebrow at John, he asked, "How long have you been sitting here?"

John glanced at the clock above Paul's bed, it read 8.30 a.m. "Oh, about half an hour or so."

"So you've been watching me sleep," Paul said with a frown.

"Well, Paul, you know watching you sleep is one of my favourite things to do," John replied with a smirk.

Paul rolled his eyes, took another sip and handed the cup back to John, who put it back on the cabinet. Paul leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes.

John studied him. There were dark shadows under Paul's eyes and his face looked pale and drawn. "You look tired," John observed.

"I AM tired," Paul responded, not opening his eyes.

"The doctor told me they had to give you a sedative last night," John began awkwardly. "He said you were having one hell of a nightmare."

Paul opened his eyes and looked at John. He considered telling him what he'd dreamt, but decided against it; he didn't want to sound soft. "Yeah, it was just a side effect of one of those drugs they gave me," he lied. Though, thinking about it, he wasn't sure whether it was entirely untrue. Lots of drugs had that effect on people, he mused.

John raised an eyebrow at him, not completely convinced, but decided to respect Paul's privacy…for now.

"Geo and Ring are down in the hospital cafeteria, getting themselves a cuppa," John said, changing the subject. "Mal, Neil and Brian are coming by later on." John left out the reason why they were going to be later; they had to cancel numerous concerts and arrange other things that needed to be taken care of.

Paul nodded, his eyes drifting closed again. There was so much he wanted to ask, but he was just so tired. He forced his eyelids open. "When's our next concert?"

"Don't be daft, Paul! We're not doin' any concerts till you're well enough to play again," John replied matter-of-factly. "We sound like crap without you, you know."

Paul looked at him, a warm feeling coming over him.

John suddenly felt a bit embarrassed and got up from his chair. "Don't tell anyone I said that, they'll think it's my fault you got so bloody big-headed," John said to mask his embarrassment. "I'm off to grab a cuppa meself," he said gruffly and strode from the room.

Paul smiled to himself, closed his eyes and was asleep within minutes.

The next day, Paul was delighted to hear that he was allowed to go home. He was given a small bottle of painkillers and a similar bottle of sleeping pills, together with strict doctor's orders to have lots of rest and to regularly change the bandages around his arm.

Of course, "home" in this case was a hotel room, since they were still in America. However, Paul was relieved to hear that Brian had already made arrangements for them to fly back to England the next day.

And so, four days after the horrible attack on Paul, he was comfortably lying in his own bed, in his own room, in his own home, in London.

His three fellow Beatles visited him every day to see if there was anything they could do for him, to keep him company and of course, to annoy him.

Occasionally John would take a song he'd just written over to Paul to have it looked over.

Paul also received thousands of "Get Well" cards and letters from fans all over the world. Naturally, the attack on the Beatle had proven to be impossible to keep quiet. It had been on the front page of newspapers in almost every country.

However, Paul had no interest whatsoever in reading any of the cards or letters. He simply refused to open them and had the tons of mail bags stored in his basement to throw away later.

Of course, John, George and Ringo found that perfectly understandable since the fan mail was what had started the whole thing off in the first place. In fact, they all had gotten quite reluctant to look through them.

Brian did, however, send out a press release that Paul was now feeling much better and that he appreciated all the well wishes.

Paul was recovering much faster than expected; the fact that he hadn't had anymore nightmares since he'd been home was also very encouraging. Paul just dismissed the bad dreams as a side effect of one of the painkillers he'd been given in the hospital.

A few days after the Beatles had returned home, John was sitting on the floor of Paul's room strumming his guitar, attempting to write a song. Paul lay in bed, listening, and sometimes suggested a line or a lick. He was beginning to feel rather frustrated that he was unable to make or write any music himself.

His left arm was still quite useless and he doubted he would be able to handle the weight of a guitar against his injured chest.

As John continued to pluck the strings of his guitar, Paul suddenly threw aside the covers. John looked at him, eyebrows raised. "What are you doin'?" he demanded.

Paul sat up slowly, holding his breath to keep the pain that was radiating from his chest to a minimum. He carefully put one foot on the floor and then the other.

"Paul?" John asked again, now putting his guitar aside and standing up. He watched as Paul just sat on the edge of his bed to catch his breath. John thought he looked rather white. "Paul, what are you doin'?"

Paul let out an explosive sigh. "I've got to take a piss, alright?" he said irritably as he pushed himself up very slowly until he finally stood. His legs felt rather wobbly and the shirt and shorts he was wearing as pyjamas didn't do much to protect him from the chilly air of his bedroom. He shivered and goose bumps appeared on his arms.

John was by his side in an instant. He saw Paul shiver, grabbed one of the covers from the bed and wrapped it around Paul. Now almost all that was visible was Paul's tousled mop of dark-brown hair.

"Ta," Paul said, though he was starting to feel like a little child who needed to be looked after. He took a rather unsteady step towards the bathroom, swaying a little.

John instantly held an arm out to steady him if necessary. "Alright, Paul?"

Paul gritted his teeth to keep from snapping at him. He was growing more than a little annoyed at having John hovering around him constantly. "Yeah."

Shuffling further towards the bathroom, Paul felt his ribs starting to ache again and he was suddenly grateful the bathroom was next to his bedroom and not on the other side of the house. He was already feeling exhausted.

John opened the door for him and Paul finally reached the bathroom. He shuffled over to the toilet and was about to pull down the front of his shorts, when he realised that John was still in the room. Paul looked at him over his shoulder. "Thanks, John, you can go now, you know."

John hesitated. "Well… are you sure you'll be ok using the loo?"

Paul lost his temper completely. "Well, for Christ's sake, John! I'm not some helpless little child, you know! I'm perfectly capable of taking a piss by myself, thank you! I'm not an invalid and I certainly don't need you to look after me!"

John's face became unreadable as his anger rose. "You could've fooled me, the way you've been actin'. You've been like a pathetic prima donna with all your aches and pains," he said acidly. "Ow, me ribs! Ow, me arm! Ow, me head!" he imitated in a high-pitched voice. Though John knew the opposite was true; Paul had hardly complained at all. However, he was hurt by Paul's words and being John Lennon, instead of showing his emotions, he resorted to using his sharp tongue.

"Well, piss off then!" Paul snapped, his own anger rising. "I never asked for your help so stop hovering around me every time I move my arse!"

His chest now felt as though it was on fire. Breathing caused him enough pain as it was, having a shouting match with John only added to his discomfort. The strain was also making him feel a bit light-headed and he quickly put his good hand against the wall to steady himself. The blanket that John had wrapped about him dropped to the floor in the process, causing Paul to start shivering again.

John shook his head incredulously, oblivious to Paul's growing distress. "Do you have any clue at all why I go through the trouble of looking after your sorry arse?!" Not waiting for an answer he continued, his voice increasing in volume. "Of course you don't, you selfish bastard! It's because I feel fuckin' guilty, that's why!"

"John…" Paul was slightly panicking now; his chest was feeling increasingly heavy and painful and black dots were swirling in front of his eyes. His breath was coming in short gasps, making his chest hurt even more and his legs were trembling underneath him.

"No, shut yer yap, Paul! For once you're going to fuckin' listen to me! I – Christ!" he exclaimed as he lunged instinctively to catch Paul as he suddenly pitched forward.

However, Paul's unexpected dead wait dragged them both down and they ended up sprawled on the floor, Paul on top of John. John quickly shifted position so that Paul's head rested on his leg. He looked down at his mate anxiously. "Macca?"

Paul's eyes were open, but they seemed slightly off somehow. He lay there for a bit until John saw his eyes come back to focus.

"Macca, are y'alright?" John asked worriedly, feeling even more guilty now.

Paul blinked a few times. "Yeah, my legs just gave way for a minute there."

"Christ, you scared the shit out of me, Macca!" John chided him. "See, you ARE a selfish bastard. You can't even let me finish my rant without hogging all the attention," he added jokingly, gathering his wits.

Paul sniggered. "Sorry about that." Then his face twisted into a grimace.

"What's the matter?" John asked, worried again.

"Fuck, I just really need to piss now," Paul replied and John burst into laughter.

"You ok then?"

Paul nodded.

"Right then, let's give your bladder the relief it so desperately needs," John said dramatically, as he carefully helped Paul to stand up.

This time, as Paul repositioned himself in front of the toilet, John did step outside.

Ten minutes later, a very much relieved Paul was back in his bed, panting.

John sat down with his guitar again as though nothing had ever happened.

"John?"

John looked up. "Yes, Paul?"

"Why do you feel guilty?"

"Forget it, Macca," John replied, trying to dismiss the subject as he turned his attention back to his guitar.

"Oh, come on, John. It's obviously botherin' you," Paul said.

John stared at the floor a moment, weighing off whether he should tell Paul or not. He absent-mindedly reached inside the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and held it between his lips as he lit it.

After taking a long drag, he finally looked up at Paul again.

"Alright. Remember when you got that letter…you know the night that fuckin' bastard tried to have a go at ye?" John began.

Paul nodded. _How could I forget?_ he thought.

"Well, I was going to tell Neil and Mal about the whole letter thing, you know, so they could take some extra precautions or whatever," John said, pausing to take another drag from his cigarette.

Paul waited patiently, though he thought he knew what John was going to tell him next.

"And well, my bloody memory failed me again. I just forgot all about it and I can't stand the fact that something that important slipped my mind," John said, growing annoyed with himself. "I mean, the whole fuckin' thing might never have happened if I'd told Mal and Neil and you never would've been, you know, like this."

Paul stared at him. "You've got to be joking," he said. "Come off it, Johnny! Nobody could've known what was going to happen. Even if you had told Mal or Neil, that barmy fucker would've probably gotten me anyway."

John was suddenly intrigued by how his cigarette, which he was holding between his thumb and index finger, was slowly burning up. He never felt very comfortable with conversations of this kind.

Not receiving any reaction from John, Paul continued. "Besides," he added, "you weren't solely responsible, you know. You may be our leader, but I'm quite capable of telling people things myself, you know."

At the words "our leader" John had torn his eyes away from his ciggie to look at Paul, who gave him a warm smile.

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier, John. I mean, I do really appreciate you lookin' after me and all, I just got frustrated about not being able to do much at the moment, you know."

John waved him off. "Forget it, Macca, I shouldn't've said what I said either. It was just the heat of the moment."

"So I'm not a pathetic prima-donna then?" Paul asked with a grin.

"Oh no, you definitely are a prima-donna, just not a pathetic one," John replied, quickly ducking the pillow Paul attempted to throw at him, missing him by miles.

Five weeks later, Paul was as good as new, except for the scar he bore on his left arm. His ribs sometimes felt a bit sore, but they had healed up nicely.

Neither of them really talked about the attack on Paul. They all seemed rather keen to forget the whole thing, Paul especially. So nobody brought it up, though they did receive news that the case against Paul's assailant, whose name turned out to be Joshua Tanning, would be going to court within a few weeks. Until that time, he would be locked up behind bars.

One evening, all four Beatles, Brian and Neil were gathered in Paul's home. Paul had made them all a cup of tea and they were making themselves comfortable in the sitting room.

Brian however, was nervously pacing up and down the room, wringing his hands; he had an announcement to make, but he wasn't sure how the boys were going to take it.

When they'd all settled down, Brian looked around the room and started. "Boys, we're going on tour again."

"When?" John asked.

"At the end of the week, but we're leaving the day after tomorrow. It's only about four or five concerts and they're all here in Britain," Brian added hastily.

"Fuck off!" John answered, glancing at Paul, who simply sat and stared at the floor.

"Paul's been feeling much better lately…" Brian continued.

"Who are you to decide that?" George spoke up.

"Well, I'm your manager, so technically…"

"Well, fuckin' hell!" John exploded. "You're not the one who has to perform under those bleedin' hot lights!" he began heatedly, "You don't have to be rushed in and out of cars, theatres and dressing rooms-"

"Believe me, John, I know, but the pressure being put on me is simply-" Brian tried to explain.

"Pressure on YOU?!" John exclaimed incredulously. "What the fuck do you know about pressure?!" John was getting pretty steamed up by now. "Let me tell you- " he began, rising from the sofa he'd been sitting on.

Paul, who was sitting next to him, put a restraining hand on his arm. "John, it's alright," he said quietly. He stood up. "It's alright, lads. We'll do it, Eppy."

Brian hesitated. "Well, only if you're sure you're up for it…"

Paul flashed his McCartney smile. "Yeah, I'm up for it! I've been bored to death the past few weeks and you know, I'm fine now."

John stared at him, a strange expression on his face.

Paul wasn't sure whether he was about to yell at him or smack him a good one. However, John surprised him by sitting down abruptly.

"Well, let's have a vote then," Ringo spoke up. "Paul, if you're absolutely certain you're up for it, I don't really see any reason why we shouldn't go."

"Reasonable Ringo has a point there," George agreed.

John glared at them all, knowing he'd been outvoted. "Alright then, have it your way."

"Marvellous," Brian said happily. "I made sure the schedule isn't too demanding, boys. We'll be going for about thirteen days in which you'll only do about four concerts and we'll only be doing some promoting," he added and went on explaining how things had been arranged.

Paul sat back down on the sofa, grabbing his cup of tea from the table as he went, only half-listening to what Brian was saying. He could feel John's eyes on him and felt a twinge of guilt; after all, John had only been sticking up for him.

He met John's eyes. "John, I'm sorry-"

"It's alright, Macca," John interrupted him. "I just hope you know what you're doin'."

Paul nodded. "So do I," he said quietly.


	9. Stage Fright 9

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

**Stage Fright chapter nine**

Ringo suddenly sat bolt upright, his heart racing. He blinked at the darkness that surrounded him. A moment ago he'd been sleeping peacefully, but then he'd been awoken by an ear-splitting scream which to him had come as unexpected as a booming crack of thunder.

"No! Stop it!" he heard somebody mumble.

He turned his head in the direction where his roommate lay. "Paul?"

Ringo and Paul usually shared a hotel room when they were on tour. The main reason for this was because George and Ringo had been the last two to join the band and they figured that if they'd share a room together, they'd always be the outsiders. So they thought if Ringo would share a room with Paul and George with John, they would be alright. Of course this had been in the early days, but now they were so used to it that it had become something that went without saying.

Ringo heard moaning and then a shout: "NO, PLEASE!"

"Paul!" He felt around for the light switch of the reading lamp above his bed, found it and flipped it on. A weak ray of light illuminated the room.

Ringo looked over at Paul again and saw him thrashing about in his bed, all tangled up in his blankets. His face was contorted in fear, his eyes clenched shut.

Ringo hopped out of bed and hurried over to Paul's side. He lay a hand on Paul's shoulder and shook him gently. "Paul, wake up. You're dreamin'."

However, Paul continued to mumble, restlessly throwing his head from side to side.

Ringo shook him again, a bit harder this time. "Paul, Paul wake up!" Then he had to duck quickly to avoid being hit as Paul lashed out.

"PAUL!" Ringo shouted loudly.

Finally, Paul jolted awake. He looked around wildly, as though expecting somebody to chop his head off any minute.

"Paul, take it easy. It's alright, you were only dreamin', " Ringo told him gently.

Slowly Paul began to take in his surroundings, realising he'd had a nightmare yet again. Sitting up, he let out a shuddery sigh. "Sorry, Ring. I woke you up, didn't I?" he asked, scrubbing his face with his hands.

Ringo was about to reply when suddenly the door to their room opened to reveal a sleepy John Lennon standing in the doorway. His hair was sticking up on one end and he squinted against the light from Ringo's reading lamp. "What the bloody hell is goin' on in here?!"

Ringo glanced at Paul, who silently begged him not to tell John anything. "We just got a bit carried away with a discussion we were havin', " Ringo said, realising what a flimsy lie it was. He just hoped John was too sleep-drunk to read anything into it.

John eyed them suspiciously; Ringo kneeling on the floor next to Paul's bed and Paul looking back at him with a rather guilty expression. John raised an eyebrow.

"I see what's going on here," he said, narrowing his eyes.

Paul swallowed nervously.

"You two are goin' queer on me, aren't you?"

Paul and Ringo both burst out laughing. "Get on, John!" Ringo said, sniggering. "We're about as queer as you are! Now get your mind out of the gutter and bugger off to yer own room!"

John tutted in mock haughtiness. "Well, you two just shut yer gobs and let Geo and me sleep, sods," he said as he turned and left. As he did so, he nearly bumped into the door post; he didn't have his contacts in.

Ringo turned his attention back to Paul. "You can't go on like this, you know."

"Go on like what?" Paul asked innocently.

"Like this, with the nightmares and all," Ringo replied. "This is the third night in a row that you're havin' these dreams and sometimes they keep coming back all night. You'll wear yerself out, son."

Paul just sat quietly, staring down at his hands.

Ringo studied him. "You can talk to us about it, you know."

"I'll be fine," Paul said. "It's just nerves."

"Then why don't you want me to tell the others you're havin' these nightmares?" Ringo asked.

"They'll just think I'm soft," Paul replied.

"Oh, come off it, Paul! These aren't just your regular nightmares, you know. Besides, we already KNOW you're soft, " Ringo added with a grin.

That elicited a small smile from Paul. "Just go back to bed, Ring. I'll be alright."

Ringo got up and stood looking down at him for a moment. "I can talk to the lads about it…"

"No!" Paul interrupted him hastily. "No, Ring, it's alright. I'll tell them myself, or they'll find out themselves eventually. Just go to sleep now, Ring. I promise I won't go spare on ye again tonight."

Ringo shook his head and shrugged. "Alright, mate." He returned to his bed, whilst Paul tried to disentangle himself from his blankets.

Ringo settled under the blankets and looked over at Paul again, who had by now managed to extricate himself, watching him lay back down and snuggle under the covers. "Sure you're alright, Paul?"

"Yeah. Ta, Ring," a muffled voice replied.

"Ok," Ringo said as he reached above his head and switched off the light.

Paul turned over on his side, his back to his roommate. He kept his eyes wide-open, refusing to go back to sleep again. He was convinced that if he did, the nightmares would return. Suppressing a yawn, he realised he probably wasn't going to be able to stay awake all night. He already dreaded what sleep would bring him… 


	10. Stage Fright 10

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

**Stage Fright chapter ten**

The next morning John stumbled into the private dining area of the hotel, fully dressed, but with his eyes still half-closed. He was greeted by a rather pale looking Paul, who sat picking at his breakfast.

Paul looked up briefly as John plopped down on the chair opposite to him. "Mornin.'"

John grunted something in return which Paul assumed to be a kind of reply to his greeting. He watched as John hungrily attacked his food.

After they'd sat in silence for a few minutes, John looked up from his plate. "So where are the other two buggers?" he asked around a mouthful of toast.

Paul shrugged. "Dunno."

It wasn't until John had nearly finished his breakfast that he noticed Paul hadn't even touched his food. His spoon was halfway to his mouth when he stopped and looked at his writing partner enquiringly. "Aren't ye gonna eat that?"

Paul shrugged and pushed his plate aside. "I'm not hungry."

John studied him. "You and Ringo have a wild night then?" he said, waggling his eyebrows.

"Fuck off, Lennon."

"Well, aren't we in a sunny mood today?" John said sarcastically, though he was starting to get a little concerned. Paul was actually always like a little ray of sunshine in the morning, which usually annoyed the hell out of John. However, now he was just quietly staring down at his still full plate and John suddenly realised that he had been like this every morning over the past few days. In fact, ever since they'd been touring again.

He narrowed his eyes as he munched thoughtfully. Dark shadows had gathered under Paul's eyes and his face looked exceptionally pale this morning, which made him seem much younger than his 22 years.

John put down his spoon, pushed his now empty plate away and looked his band mate in the eye. "Alright, let's have it. What's the matter?"

Paul sighed annoyed. "Nothing!"

"Go on, you stubborn git, you look like shite!" John remarked bluntly. He suspected it had something to do with the attack a few weeks ago. He hadn't forgotten about it, in fact, he'd been wondering when Paul would start showing signs of cracking up. John had known from the start that the whole thing was not going to blow over smoothly, not for any of them, no matter how hard they tried to forget it.

Still, he'd hoped that somehow Paul would be able to leave it behind him, with his ever-positive attitude. Though over the years John had come to realise that Paul's optimism was as much a mask as John's cynical wit.

Paul glared at him. "Ta."

"Well!" John replied. "Look, Paul, either you tell me now or I find out myself later, I know it has something to do with the attack-"

Paul stood up abruptly, interrupting him. "Sod off, John!" he snapped and stormed off, leaving a stunned John behind.

As he stalked out of the dining area, Paul passed a surprised-looking George and Ringo, who had just entered. George and Ringo looked at each other, eyebrows raised. Then George shrugged, turned around and went after Paul.

Ringo looked around and spotted an annoyed John getting up from his table and he made his way over to him.

"What's up with Paul?" John asked, cutting right to the chase.

"Well, good mornin' to you too, John," Ringo replied wryly.

"Answer the question, what's the matter with Paul?" John repeated impatiently.

Ringo glanced at the door, through which Paul had disappeared a moment ago. He wanted to tell John about Paul's nightmares, but he wasn't about to break Paul's trust. Besides, he didn't think it was his place to tell anyone anyway. So he just shrugged. "You'll have to ask him that, mate," he said.

John frowned; something was being kept from him and he didn't like it one bit. "I did ask him, but the stupid git wouldn't tell me."

"Then I won't tell you either," Ringo said simply.

John had always admired Ringo's great sense of loyalty, but now his loyalty was proving to be a royal pain in the arse.

"Alright, be that way! But I'll find out myself anyhow," John replied, stalking off.

"I hope you do, John," Ringo muttered to himself.

Meanwhile, George had caught up to Paul, who was on his way to the lift. George put his hand on Paul's shoulder to slow him down. "Paul, calm down! What's goin' on?"

Paul slowed his pace, but did not reply. When he reached the lift, he pressed the button and then leaned his back against the wall next to it and waited.

George looked at him. "What's the matter, Paul?"

Paul closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation. "Please Harri, don't you start too."

George scratched his head, unsure of what he wasn't supposed to start. "Ok."

He watched Paul leaning against the wall, his eyes still closed and now it was George's turn to notice how tired he looked. He was about to ask Paul something, but changed his mind when he remembered Paul's exasperated request. So instead he just leaned against the wall opposite to Paul, mirroring his position and waited with him.

After a moment, George decided to break the silence. "So…where were you storming off to anyway?"

Paul shrugged. "Dunno."

George nodded. "Ok," he said, as silence descended on them again. George racked his brain, trying to think of something to say. He knew something was wrong with his mate and he wanted to know what it was.

"Paul, you can talk-"

"George," Paul warned.

"Right, ok."

To his relief, George spotted Ringo and John emerging from the dining-area. He waved them over and looked down at his watch.

"Aye, Paul," he said, suddenly remembering why he and Ringo had been looking for John and Paul in the first place. "Brian told us to be ready at eleven for a press conference."

Paul glanced down at his own watch. "Well, we'd better hurry then," he said, straightening up. As he did so, he saw John thundering towards him.

Just then, the lift dinged and the doors slid open.

"What the fuck did you do that for, you stupid sod!" John spat angrily when he reached Paul.

"I was tired of your naggin'," Paul replied evenly.

"So ye think I'm naggin', aye? You think yer fucking above everything, don't you, McCartney?!" John growled, stabbing his finger in Paul's face.

Paul was about to make an angry remark back when an urgent cough caught his attention. He looked at Ringo, who was standing behind John and was nodding his head towards the lift. Paul slowly turned his head towards the open elevator doors and smiled sheepishly at the hotel guests that were gawping at them from inside. From the corner of his eye, he saw that John too had realised they had treated them to quite a 'performance'.

John and Paul looked at each other briefly and then bowed simultaneously. "Ladies and gentlemen," John said in a posh accent as he straightened up, "I hope you enjoyed the show and will continue to enjoy your stay here." He promptly launched into one of his spastic dances.

"Thank you very much," Paul added, and as though on cue, the lift gave another ding and the doors slid shut again.

As the lift went up, all four Beatles looked at each other for a long moment before bursting out laughing.

The row forgotten, they went to seek out Brian together.

Half an hour later, they were seated at a long table in a conference hall, waiting for the journalists to arrive. It was an unusual situation for them, because normally, the journalists were having to wait for them to arrive. However, the Beatles had been early and the journalists had been delayed.

Paul was nervously drumming his fingers on the table, realising all to well this wasn't going to be easy. They were going to be drilling him with questions about his attack, which he wasn't very keen to answer.

"Aye, don't worry, Paul," Ringo said gently. "It'll be alright. They're just nutters, you know. They'll write whatever they want to write, whether we said it or not."

Paul smiled weakly at him. "Yeah."

At that moment, the doors banged open and Paul thought it was like a dam had broken as a mass of overzealous journalists and photographers poured in. Paul inadvertently braced himself as he watched the reporters storm at them, fully expecting them to bowl over the entire table.

It seemed the journalists had unanimously decided to make it as difficult for the Beatles as possible by forming a human hedge right in front of the table, instead of sitting down calmly on their assigned seats.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please settle down and take your seats," Brian said loudly, trying to make himself heard, however, to no avail.

Even though the table at which the Beatles sat, was equipped with four microphones, one for each Beatle, the journalists shoved their microphones in their faces.

John was surprised this was even possible. He'd thought Brian would've turned up the security level a notch…hell, a few notches even. He threw Brian a murderous glare, who lifted his arms in a hopeless gesture. Then John watched him turn to Mal and mutter something in his ear. After that, Mal hurried off.

Dozens of light bulbs flashed and the journalists started to fire off their questions.

"Paul, can you understand why somebody would want to kill you?" a voice rang out, silencing everyone in the room.

John stole a glance at Paul, who swallowed. "Well, I can't understand why anyone would want to kill anybody really," Paul replied, appearing much calmer than he felt.

Microphones were pushed even further into his face, the other three Beatles were practically ignored.

"There are quite a few boys out there who feel you are stealing their girls away. What do you have to say about that, Paul?"

Before Paul could say anything, John spoke up. "Well, that's just bullocks, isn't it? We don't 'steal' anyone away. Girls have their own minds, you know."

Even though Paul was grateful that John was sticking up for him, he was suddenly starting to feel a bit claustrophobic. The journalist were only prevented from jumping at them by two policemen who stood on either side of the table. And those two policemen suddenly seemed awfully tiny to him.

"Well, isn't that why you're in the rock 'n roll business? To be able to have any girl you want?"

"We're in this business because we love to make music," Paul replied, as he nervously pulled on his tie in an effort to loosen it. However, as his panic rose, his breathing quickened. Images of trampling feet and tearing hands flashed before his eyes and the relentless shouting and calling of the journalists rang in his ears, making his head hurt.

George, who was sitting next to him, looked over at Paul and noticed tiny drops of sweat forming on Paul's forehead.

Another journalist shoved his microphone into Paul's face. "Paul, there are people who believe you provoked the attack by presenting yourself as "the cute Beatle" and thereby making yourself desired by millions of girls, but also making yourself hated by thousands of boys. Do you see any truth in that?"

Paul stared at him as the room went quiet for the first time. Then, he stood up abruptly, only barely managed to mumble an "excuse me" and quickly weaved his way through the mob of journalists and disappeared through the door that led to the hall.

At that precise moment, Mal came bursting in with a number of policemen. Neil rushed over to meet them and pointed at the door Paul had just disappeared through. Two policemen instantly moved to stand in front of it, as though daring anyone to try and get through it.

John, eyebrows raised, signalled to Brian to wrap it up.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid this will have to do," Brian announced.

The journalists continued to shout questions towards the remaining Beatles, but this time they were silenced by the policemen Mal had brought in. They were quickly herded towards the exit.

As soon as he saw the journalists retreat, John sprang up from his chair. "Alright, lads. Let's find out where that sod's gone off to."


	11. Stage Fright 11

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

**Stage Fright chapter eleven**

John, George and Ringo quickly went to follow Paul.

"Boys, do you really think that's such a good idea?" Brian's distinguished-sounding voice came from somewhere to their left.

John turned to face him. "No, Brian, I don't. I think this whole fuckin' tour was a bloody bad idea. And here I was, thinking you were going to take more security measures after what happened to Paul, but obviously you didn't," he spat.

Brian stared at him. "I did, John, believe me, I did. Do you really think I'd want anything to happen to you?" Brain said indignantly.

George studied Brian. Suddenly he didn't look at all like the dignified gentleman he was always posing to be. His cheeks were slightly flushed and he actually seemed angry. George supposed the whole thing had startled and worried Brian just as much as it had them.

Brian took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. "Look, boys, I'd arranged for quite a few policemen to keep an eye on things, but somehow something must have gone wrong and only two of them were where they were supposed to be. Now, I intend to find out what exactly went wrong and I would feel much better if I knew that at least you three are in your rooms, safe and sound," Brian continued, his eyes pleading them to comply.

John was about to protest, when George put a hand on his shoulder to silence him. "Brian, you can't expect us to just sit about and wait for Paul to turn up. We're goin' to look for 'im."

Brian looked from George to John and then to Ringo and saw the same determined look on each of their faces. He sighed submissively. "All right, but please take Mal or Neil with you. However," Brian said, heavily emphasising the word, "if you haven't found him in half an hour, I want you back in your rooms, is that understood? And try not to be too conspicuous," he added as an afterthought.

Try not to be too conspicuous? We're the fuckin' Beatles! John thought cynically, but before he could say anything, George and Ringo had already begun to steer him towards the door.

"Ta, Eppy!" Ringo said over his shoulder, giving Brian his most reassuring smile. "I'll make sure they'll behave themselves!"

At that, George looked at Ringo. "Aye!" he said in protest.

"Well!" Ringo replied, a smug look on his face. "I'm the oldest, you know."

"Aye, but you're also the littlest," John piped up as they reached the door and proceeded to lift Ringo up and carry him into the hall, which caused him to protest loudly, shouting, "Mal!" George followed, trying to get his sniggering under control.

Brian shook his head exasperatedly as he watched his boys disappear. _Really_.

Paul McCartney stared at himself in the mirror. Christ, I do look a fright, he thought, as he studied the dark shadows under his eyes and the paleness of his skin. Thank God for stage make-up!

His head was still pounding and his hands felt rather sweaty. However, his feeling of panic had been replaced by anger. Actually, he was fuming. Of course he was angry with the journalists, but he was absolutely furious with himself for letting them get to him.

Paul shook his head at himself and sighed. Bending a little closer to the mirror, he noticed that his eyes were slightly bloodshot. He sighed again and turned on the tap, then he cupped his hands, capturing the cool water. After a moment, Paul bent forward and splashed the water into his face. It felt both soothing and refreshing and he cupped his hands again, watching the water flow. Then he splashed it into his face again. He rubbed his eyes as though he was somehow trying to scrub the shadows away and then looked into the mirror again, water dripping from his nose and chin, to see whether it had done any good.

Instantly, his heart skipped a beat. He'd seen a dark figure suddenly move from behind him. At least, he thought he had. He whipped around, sending small drops of water flying everywhere. Paul's eyes feverishly searched the lavatory, but he saw nothing, except for three open cubicles.

The adrenaline flowing through his body enabled his ears to pick up a soft creak. He whipped his head towards the sound and saw the door that led to the hallway swing ever so slightly. However, there was absolutely nobody there. Had there been anyone when he'd come in earlier? He didn't think so, because surely somebody would've come up to him; after all, he was a Beatle.

Paul hesitated for a moment and then went inside each cubicle to make sure there really wasn't anybody there. After having convinced himself that he was indeed the only occupant of the – he suddenly noticed – amazingly clean lavatory, he let out a long breath and turned back to the mirror. "For Christ's sake, McCartney, get a hold of yourself. You're startin' to have nightmares with your eyes open," he told himself sternly.

He reached for a paper towel to dry off his face when the lavatory door suddenly banged open, startling him so badly that he nearly poked his own eye out.

A figure appeared in the doorway. "Aye, lads! He's in here!" John Lennon called over his shoulder as he entered the lavatory, then he turned to Paul. "We've been lookin' all over for ya, Macca. Next time you decide to do yer disappearing act, leave us a note."

As he recognised his friend, Paul felt his legs grow weak with relief.

John went to stand next to him. "Alright, Paul?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, just had to take a piss," Paul replied.

"You been pissin' for the past twenty minutes, then?" John said sarcastically as he eyed him critically. "You look sort of white, son."

Paul contemplated for a moment whether to tell John what he'd seen, or what he thought he'd seen. "Well, you know, I thought I saw – "

But at that precise moment, Ringo, George and Mal burst in.

"A Beatle invasion…" John observed.

"Aye, Paul, don't go runnin' off like tha'," George said to him, ignoring John's remark.

Paul sighed. "I just really needed a piss, is all. I'm fine, really."

They all simply stood and stared at him, the disbelief evident on their faces.

"Right, who're you foolin'?" John said finally, grabbing Paul's arm and pulling him along. "Come 'ead, lad, our orders are to take ye back to the suite so Brian can yell at ye." Under his breath, he added, "And I'm not through with you yet either, Macca."

Paul sighed once again. "Just what I need…" he muttered as he allowed himself to be dragged off. Mal, George and Ringo followed suit.

Later that evening, Paul and Ringo were the only ones left in the sitting-room area of their suite. Ringo usually was the one who was up the latest. He was always either still watching television in the sitting-room or he was reading a book or magazine or some such thing.

Lately, however, Paul had joined him in his late-night activities. Paul said it was to keep him company, but Ringo knew better. Over the years, Ringo had never known Paul to stay up very late, unless they were off in a club somewhere. Ringo knew it was only because of the nightmares that he sat there.

Ringo was quietly reading a book, holding a glass of scotch in one hand, when he gradually became aware of an annoying buzzing sound. He glanced up and realised with a start that the American TV-stations had stopped broadcasting hours ago. The only thing that was on now was white static. He'd been so engrossed in his book that he hadn't even noticed!

Suddenly remembering that Paul had been the one watching TV, he glanced over at his mate. Paul's head had sunk forward, his chin resting on his chest. He'd caught Paul nodding off several times already and each time, Paul's head would suddenly jerk up and he would glance around the room, wide-eyed. He seemed determined to keep awake, but Ringo realised that he was simply too exhausted to be able to do so.

Poor lad, he thought, he'll probably be plagued by nightmares again tonight. Then he abruptly remembered that he wasn't Paul's roommate today. Earlier, John had come up to him and told him that he was going to share a room with Paul this time to find out "what the fuck is going on", as John had so eloquently put it. So whilst Brian had been talking to Paul, Ringo and John had quickly moved their things.

Ringo smiled as he thought about how George had been puzzled by the whole migration. He'd stood there, one eyebrow raised, scratching his head. "Has me snorin' gotten worse than Ritchie's or somethin'?" he'd asked.

Naturally, John and Ringo had had some laughs with him before they'd finally clued him in. Paul, however, was in for a surprise and Ringo had to admit he felt a bit sorry for the lad.

He glanced at his watch and noted it was past 2 a.m. Definitely time to knock off. He tossed down the last of his scotch and brought the glass over to the counter. After that, he went to turn off the TV.

At the sudden quietness, Paul's head jerked up again, his eyes snapping open.

Ringo patted his shoulder. "Aye, Paul, I'm off to bed and you should do the same, you know."

Paul squinted up at him. "Yeah, alright," he mumbled. "What time is it?" he asked groggily and looked at his watch. "Christ…"

"'Christ' is right, mate. I'll see ye in the mornin'. And try to get a bit of sleep, alright?" Ringo said, though he knew Paul didn't have much choice in the matter.

"Ta, Ring. 'Night," Paul said, getting up and stretching. He noticed his half-empty glass of scotch still on the side-table and picked it up. He considered finishing it, but decided against it. He'd already had more than enough tonight and he wasn't exactly keen on having a hangover the next morning. So he put it on the counter, as Ringo had done only a few moments before.

Paul stood there for a moment, leaning against the counter, savouring the silence. He dreaded having to go to sleep and be haunted by nightmares again, but he knew there was little else to do. He sighed; tomorrow was their first performance since the attack and he wasn't exactly looking forward to it. Just thinking about it sent shivers down his spine.

Get a grip, McCartney, he mentally chided himself.

Finally, he decided to head for bed. He quietly opened the door to his room and was surprised to find Ringo already fast asleep, completely buried under his covers. Careful not to wake him, Paul eased the door closed and tip-toed across the room to his own bed. He slowly pulled off his clothes and then crawled into bed, wearing only his undies.

He lay there for a while, staring into the darkness. But eventually, his eyelids drooped and he drifted off into the land of dreams…and nightmares.


	12. Stage Fright 12

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

**Stage Fright chapter twelve **

A dark, quiet man crept along the dimly-lit hallway. He was completely dressed in black and checked his watch every now and then.

He grinned an ugly grin when he found the suite he been looking for. He checked his watch once more and was satisfied to learn that he was precisely on schedule. It was now exactly four a.m. and he knew everyone would be sound asleep by this time, which made it highly unlikely that someone would catch him red-handed.

He knelt silently in front of room 206 and fished a set of lock-picks out of his pocket. He quietly set to work on the cheap hotel lock and grinned again as he heard a soft click. The man quietly turned the doorknob and inched the door open to make sure there was no one in sight.

Satisfied, he swung the door open fully and immediately went to the left bedroom door, effortlessly avoiding any obstacles in the darkness. He repeated his previous actions by opening the door ever so slightly and peeked inside. The sounds of soft and even breathing told him the two occupants were sound asleep.

When his eyes came to rest on the figure bundled up in the left bed, he was suddenly overcome by an intense hatred. His eyes blazed and in two large strides he was standing next to the peacefully sleeping occupant. For a split-second, the man hesitated. But then, consumed by hatred, he leapt onto the young man in the bed, his fingers tightening around the boy's throat even before he finished positioning himself.

Paul's eyes flew open as he was suddenly unable to breathe. Staring into two horribly blazing eyes, he gasped and clawed at the fingers applying pressure to his throat.

Paul could see the man's lips moving, but he couldn't hear what he was saying for the sound of blood rushing through his veins. He coughed and gasped, desperately trying to suck in some air, but to no avail. He thrashed about, attempting to dislodge the man that was sitting on top of him, but he was too strong and too heavy.

Finally, Paul could no longer bear to look into those eyes that were glowing with hatred an intense hatred that was directed at him - and he shifted his gaze to the figure on the other bed, which appeared to still be sleeping peacefully.

"Ringo!" he gasped weakly, his voice unable to rise little more above a whisper. "Ringo! Help please!"

But the figure in the bed did not move.

Paul coughed again, emitting a horrible choking sound. Darkness was closing in around the edges of his vision and his attempts at breaking free grew fainter.

"Ringo." he tried one last time, before the darkness claimed him.

.

"MACCA!"

At the familiar sound of the nickname Paul's eyes snapped open, and he took in great gulps of air at the same time.

"That's it, Macca, breathe," a voice said soothingly.

Paul coughed and tried to sit up, but found he couldn't move. In his half-asleep mind, he thought he been tied up by his attacker and broke into a panic, struggling weakly.

"Paul, stop it! It's alright, it's just yer covers," the voice said, which Paul now recognised as that of his friend John Lennon.

Paul blinked and lay still, breathing raggedly. "John?" he croaked, suddenly realising that his friend was hovering over him.

"That's right, mate. It's me, it's alright," John said, peering into Paul's eyes. He saw an intense fear in them, something he never seen in anyone's eyes before.

Paul took a deep breath and shook his head. That dream had been much too real for his liking. Had it been a dream?

"God," he murmured, suddenly realising that his covers were wrapped tightly around his body, effectively pinning his right arm to his side.

"Yeah, how you managed to get yer covers all tossed up that way is beyond me," John remarked, as though reading Paul's mind.

Paul slowly untangled himself, which proved to be a much more difficult task than he thought.

Suddenly, something just seemed to click in his mind. He paused and looked up at John, who was standing next to his bed, watching him with concerned eyes. "What are you doin here? Where's Ringo?"

"I switched rooms with him," John replied unwaveringly. "I didn't like the way you were behavin and Ritch refused to tell me what was goin on in that daft head of yours."

"Well, now you know, don't you," Paul grumbled, feeling annoyed with himself as well as with Ringo and John. Fuck, he felt annoyed with the whole world right at the moment.

When he finally managed to sit up properly, Paul reached for the glass of water that was on his night stand. Only when he took a sip did he realise that John must have put it there for him, because it hadn't been there when he gone to bed a few hours earlier.

"Ta, John," Paul muttered. He felt the mattress dip as John sat down next to him.

"How long have you been havin these nightmares, Paul?" John asked him seriously.

Paul shrugged. "Since we begun tourin again," he replied, deciding that trying to deny it now would be useless. He rubbed his eyes, expecting John to start yelling at him what a stupid sod he was.

But he didn't.

Instead, John just nodded and was quiet for a few long moments. "Bloody hell, Macca," he muttered finally, shaking his head. "Why didn't ye tell me? Or Brian? He could have arranged somethin', you know, cancel the concerts or some such thing."

Paul looked at him sarcastically. "I'm sure the press are having the best time of their lives already with what happened this morning. I can't back out now, John, they'll think were splittin up or something again."

"Well, who cares?" John said, suddenly feeling rebellious. "Let them think the Beatles are over. I don't fuckin care! They've said that loads of times and we proven them wrong every time, haven't we?"

Paul shook his head. "Think about the fans, John".

"Well, they can't very well blame us for the whole bloody thing, can they?"

"Well, no," Paul said, then seemed to hesitate for a minute. "But it's important to me, you know. I mean, you know what they say about falling off your horse; you have to get back on it or you may never dare riding a horse again. It's the same for me, Paul said, finally looking at his friend. If I don't get up on that stage tomorrow, I'm afraid I'll never have the nerve to do it again, and I can't stand that thought."

John nodded, turning that information over in his head. He understood now why his friend was being so stubborn. It wasn't necessarily because he felt he owed it to their fans, but he owed it to himself. He needed to get his nerve back and John had to admit that that was a very important thing to try to get back. He looked over at Paul, but didn't really know what to say. He never felt very comfortable talking about this sort of emotional stuff.

"All right, son," he suddenly said in a thick Scottish accent, clapping Paul on the shoulder. "We best be gettin yer nerve back for ye then, aye?" He yawned widely and stood up. "Right, now off to bed with ye, lad."

Paul smiled faintly and watched as John made his way over to his own bed and buried himself deep under the covers. John threw a last glance at Paul. "Will you be alright then?"

"Yeah, Paul replied, not sure if he was speaking the truth or not. He wasn't too keen on going back to sleep, but he knew he'd be in a much worse state the next day if he didn't.

As John turned over, Paul flicked off the light, lay back down and closed his eyes.

John? he asked five minutes later.

"'M sleep," John mumbled.

"Ta, mate," Paul said and was answered by an unintelligible grumble coming from the other bed.

* * *

_AN: Some changes were made to this chapter since there were random letters scattered about the text that made it harder to read. If people think I shouldn't edit it I can upload the raw one instead._

_Ex: 搾M抋sleep, John mumbled. to "'M sleep," John mumbled._


	13. Stage Fright 13

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

**Stage Fright chapter thirteen**

_Getting my nerve back…what the bloody hell was I thinking?!_

It was the day after he'd had 'the talk' with John and Paul was having serious doubts as to whether he should go through with this.

The Beatles were waiting around in the dressing room, preparing for their first concert in months. They were all slightly nervous, but one of them much more so than the others.

Paul had just finished getting dressed for the show and was now sitting on one of the sofas, staring at the opposite wall and biting his fingernails. He looked around the room every so often, taking in the two police officers standing on either side of the door that led into the hallway.

_Officers Connelly and Henshaw…Henshaw and Connelly. They sound like some famous detective duo, Paul mused. _

The fact that they both seemed quite sturdy did very little to relieve the tension he was feeling. For some reason, he felt like they were taking their orders to "keep an eye on him" a little too seriously; he could practically feel their eyes watching him and it was making him feel very uncomfortable.

George, John and Ringo had given up trying to make him feel at ease since they had hardly managed to get a response from him. When they did, they usually ended up getting their heads bitten off. So they had just decided to leave him be for the moment. Besides, they didn't feel very comfortable with the entire situation themselves.

Mal walked in, carrying a newspaper with 'BEATLE PAUL SUFFERS NERVOUS BREAKDOWN! IS THE END NEAR?!' splashed across the front page. Beneath the headline was a huge picture of Paul looking rather upset as he half-ran half-walked through a mob of journalists.

The Beatles had already decided to ban all newspapers from their rooms today. It seemed as if every newspaper editor in the country had dug up pictures of Paul in which he looked even remotely tired and put them in with the article about Paul's 'breakdown'.

"For God's sake, Mal, get that away," Paul snapped, instantly coming to life when he saw a huge version of himself on the front of the paper.

Mal gave him a confused stare, and then looked down at the paper in his hands. "Oh, I'm sorry, Paul, I was just going to throw this in the bin. It was on the floor outside the door."

Paul only nodded and resorted to pacing; much like Ringo had done so many weeks ago. It wasn't like he'd never been nervous before, but this was so much worse. He felt like he was about to be sent out to his execution. Maybe he was. Maybe he was about to be executed. What if some barmy idiot decided to simply shoot a hole in him? What if someone were to throw a knife at him from the audience? What if…?

Suddenly, Paul made a mad dash for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. The three remaining Beatles looked at each other and winced when they heard the retching sounds coming from the other side of the door.

Mal made to go after Paul with a sympathetic look on his face, but Ringo stopped him. "Mal, trust me, he doesn't want anyone to see him like that. Just leave the lad be for a minute."

"Right, right," Mal said, trying hard not to listen to Paul's retching. "Well, uhm… is there anything I can do for you, lads?"

Ringo rose to the tips of his toes and threw an arm around the large man's shoulders. "Why don't ye take a break for a minute, Mal. Let's go and watch a bit of telly."

*

A few minutes later Paul came out of the bathroom, looking pale and drawn, but quite composed. He moved over to the sofa - carefully avoiding the concerned glances he was receiving - plopped down and reached for a pack of cigarettes that was on the table. He didn't know whose cigarettes they were nor did he really care.

Paul's hand was trembling as he brought the cigarette to his lips.

"Christ, you won't even be able to perform, the state you're in," John commented. He leaned forward and also took a cigarette out of the pack on the table.

"Aye, stop nickin' me ciggies," Ringo said from the other sofa, where he was still watching TV with Mal.

"Well, don't leave your mess lying around then," John remarked, leaning against the sofa beside Paul.

Paul scowled at him, leaning forward to tap the ashes into the ashtray on the table. However, as he did so, the left sleeve of his jacket came into firm contact with John's cigarette.

John instinctively jerked his hand back, yelping: "Watch that!" but it was already too late.

There was a sizzling sound and a minute later Paul was inspecting his sleeve and saw a significant black scorch mark on the light grey colour of his suit.

George, who up until that point had been engrossed in a magazine, looked up and sniffed. "Aye, somethin's burnin'."

When he found he was being ignored, he stood up and curiously joined John and Paul to see what was up.

"Oh," he commented when he spotted the scorch mark. "You've got a hole there, mate."

"Nothing gets by you, does it, George?" Paul responded dryly.

"Shit," John muttered, eyeing the ruined sleeve. "Sorry, mate."

Paul sighed, sounding more tired than anything. "S'Alright, I'll get Neill to fix it."

Mal looked at them over his shoulder. "He's out talkin' to the sound people," he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the hallway and starting to rise. "I'll go and fetch him."

"Nah, I'll go find him myself. Ta, Mal," Paul said. He needed to be on his own for a little while, to try to calm his nerves. However, before he could even so much as take a step towards the door, officer Connelly was beside him.

"I'll be tagging along, Mr McCartney," the officer announced.

John sniggered at the exasperated look Paul gave him before he walked out the door, the police officer at his heels.

A minute later, however, a loud, ominous bang startled them out of their wits. A bang that had sounded an awful lot like a gunshot.

The men in the room looked at each other, all of them sitting bolt upright. Each mirrored the expression written on the other's face: terror.

"Paul!" 


	14. Stage Fright 14

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

**Stage Fright chapter fourteen**

Officer Henshaw was the first to snap out of his daze and yanked open the door to the hall.

"Stay here," he said over his broad shoulder, before carefully moving out into the hall, putting one hand on his service gun and at the same time reaching for his radio with his other hand.

"The hell we are," Ringo countered and as smoke floated inside, he disappeared into the hall.

"Ringo! The officer said to-" but before Mal could finish his sentence, both John and George had already joined Ringo.

"Well, bugger it," Mal muttered to himself, before following the boys into the hallway. He knew Brian would never forgive him if he'd let anything happen to them.

"Paul!" John, George and Ringo called frantically. A strong odour reached their nostrils.

It was difficult to make out anything in the thick smoke, but they could hear voices and coughing and the crackling of police radios. Someone bumped into Ringo and in a brief flash, he thought he could make out a police uniform, so he grabbed the man's arm. "What's happened? Have you seen Paul McCartney?"

The tall, burly policeman squinted at him, then looked over Ringo's shoulder at the other three anxious faces. "You're the Beatles, aren't you?" the man asked.

"Yes!" John replied impatiently, "But we can't find Paul, have you seen him?"

"Gentlemen, I think it's best if you go back inside and get out of the way so we can do our job without having to worry about your safety," the policeman said gruffly, holding out an arm to prevent them from going any further.

"Well, for God's sake, man!" Mal sputtered at the way they were being talked down to.

"Paul!" George shouted, trying – with very little success - to push past the officer's extended arm._ This bloke's even bigger than Mal!_ George thought fleetingly.

"Macca, where are ye?" John called, as the large policeman was slowly herding them back to the dressing room. "Fuckin' hell, say something!"

"Sir! It's all right, I've got McCartney here," the familiar voice of officer Connelly sounded through the dissipating smoke.

Ringo let out a relieved sigh, though he still couldn't see Paul. "Thank God."

"Right, gentlemen, you heard the man, everything's all right and under control. Now, please return to your room, your companion will join you shortly," the policeman implored.

The three Beatles and Mal finally relented and slowly returned to their dressing room, although they still weren't convinced their band mate was all right.

A few minutes later, however, proof came in the form of Paul McCartney himself, being ushered inside by the ever-present Connelly.

Paul looked pale and a bit rattled, but otherwise unharmed.

"What the bloody hell happened?" John and Ringo asked simultaneously, followed by George's: "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Paul replied, shakily making his way over to the sofa. "Some idiot set off a firecracker down the hall."

John, Ringo and George joined him on the sofa as Mal went to find Brian.

"We thought you'd been shot!" Ringo said, the fear still clear in his blue eyes.

"Nah, it just gave me a good scare, is all," Paul replied, scrubbing his face with his hands. _And just about shattered my nerves… _

The four of them sat in silence for a moment, trying to gather their wits.

"I need a ciggie," John suddenly declared, standing up and retrieving his own pack of cigarettes from his room.

"Aye, I think we could all use one," George said and John nodded, offering the others one of his cigarettes.

They were smoking silently, each lost in their own thoughts, when Brian and Neil came in.

"Are you boys all right?" Brian asked anxiously.

"Oh, yes, we're fuckin' dandy," John said, his nerves getting the better of him.

Neil pulled Brian aside. "Maybe we should cancel the concert," he said quietly. "The boys might be a bit too high-strung to go up there."

"Don't be silly," Brian replied. "The fans are already out there waiting for them, we can't possibly cancel the show now. And anyway, I think it's important they do this show, because they need to overcome their fears."

Neil sighed. "All right." He made his way over to Paul, who was smoking yet another cigarette.

"Here, lad," Neil said, draping a light grey jacket over Paul's shoulders. "Mal told me you ruined yours."

"Thanks, Neil," Paul said, too pre-occupied with his own thoughts to ask Neil where he'd got it.

*

An hour later, the four Beatles stood in the wings, waiting for them to be called on stage. Paul was so incredibly nervous that his legs were trembling underneath him and for a moment he thought they weren't going to support his weight any longer. But thankfully, they did.

His chest felt incredibly tight and he really wished he'd gone to the loo before they left the dressing room, because he was having terrible cramps. His hands were once again shaking and sweaty and he was afraid that if they didn't get this over with soon, he'd throw up all over the stage.

John looked at the paleness of Paul's face and gently squeezed his shoulder. "Don't worry, Paul, it's only twenty minutes. You can do it."

Before Paul could reply, the all too familiar roar of the crowd told him they were being called on, and there they went.

With an effort, Paul smiled and waved nervously at the frenzied crowd. He was suddenly grateful their first song was one of John's, because his throat felt awkwardly restricted and he didn't think he could keep his voice under control right then anyway.

As they launched into the first song, Paul was glad the crowd was making so much noise, because his fingers were stiff and refused to comply with what his brain was telling them to do.

He felt, more than saw, George and John glance at him repeatedly as his fingers struck the wrong cord for the umpteenth time. He knew they weren't accusing him of anything, but that they were worried he wouldn't be able to make it through the gig.

However, after the first five minutes, Paul felt himself slowly relax and when they were about halfway through their performance, he found himself starting to enjoy the experience again as the adrenaline pumped through his body.

When John and Paul sang the first few lines of 'I'm A Loser', the crowd went even wilder and John smiled and winked at Paul. Paul gave him a wide grin in return.

Watching his band mates from behind, Ringo smiled. _All is well again._

Or so he thought… 


	15. Stage Fright 15

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

**Stage Fright chapter fiveteen**

Afterwards, four happy, excited Beatles trotted offstage. Both Neil and Mal, who had been waiting for them, congratulated them on their performance and for the first time in weeks, Paul felt like himself again. He was Paul McCartney of the Beatles, and he loved to perform. The horrible burden he had been carrying around for the past weeks had finally been lifted from his shoulders; he had conquered his fear.

As they were making their way back to their dressing room, Paul felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Mr McCartney?" a familiar voice asked as he turned around.

"Officer Connelly," Paul said, surprised to find the policeman looking a bit abashed. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, I brought my little girl along today and I was wondering if you'd be so kind as to say hello to her. She's such a big fan."

Paul sighed inwardly. People were always asking them favours like that. _Then again_, he thought, _he did do a good job in looking after me. I suppose I do owe him a favour_. "Of course," Paul said, wiping sweat off his brow with his sleeve. "Why don't you come by our dressing room in a minute and bring her along?"

"Well, the problem, sir, is that she's in a wheelchair and it's sort of hard to manoeuvre that thing around these corridors. But she's just around the corner there so I'd really appreciate it if you could just come with me and say hello to her. It'll only take a minute."

"Oh, well…" Paul said hesitantly, looking over his shoulder to see his band mates chatting with a few other people, "Well, I suppose that'll be all right. Let me just tell my mates."

"Certainly, Mr McCartney, I really appreciate it," the policeman said happily as Paul made his way over to the others.

He returned a minute later, carrying a towel Neil had pressed into his hands. "Right then, lead the way."

.

John, George and Ringo entered their dressing room and immediately started to change out of their stage suits and into a clean, or rather, dry set of clothes.

"Macca'd better get a move-on," John grumbled, pulling on his jacket. Although he was happy the gig had gone without incident, it had been a long day for all of them and their nerves had certainly been stretched to their limits.

He started when Brian burst into the room, looking rather flushed. "Where's Paul?" he demanded anxiously as several police officers followed him into their room.

Ringo raised his eyebrows at Brian's less than calm demeanour. "He went to see some little girl with one of the officers," he said, zipping up his trousers.

"What's the matter, Eppy? Did he steal your pink slippers?" John asked jokingly.

Brian looked back at him coldly. "A man was just found in one of the storage closets, bound and gagged, stripped to his underwear. He claims to be officer Abraham Connelly."

"WHAT?!" All three Beatles gaped at him. Even officer Henshaw, who had remained posted on one side of the door, seemed startled at hearing the news.

"Then who did Paul just leave with?" George asked, already dreading the answer.

Brian suddenly whipped around to face the officer who appeared to be in charge of the whole operation. "How could this possibly have happened?" Brian spluttered, furious. "Doesn't anyone know Connelly, the real Connelly?" he amended. "How could this- this impostor have pretended to be one of your police officers? How could you not have noticed?"

"I'm terribly sorry, sir. Officer Connelly transferred in from another police station only yesterday and -" the police Chief started.

"Oh, for God's sake, man, we don't have time for your fuckin' excuses," John interrupted. "We've got to find Paul!"

Paul McCartney followed the tall, burly policeman around a corner and as he was about to round the next, his head suddenly exploded with pain. His knees buckled, black dots twirling in front of his eyes. He felt someone grab him around the waist and drag him off, but he was too disoriented to do anything about it.

The pain in his head was blinding him, literally. He tried to speak, to call for help, to shout, but the only thing that would come out was a weak whimper.

Nausea was threatening to overtake him and he feebly struggled against the hands that were dragging him, fearing he was about to vomit. His struggles were rewarded with a rough shaking and a harsh voice hissing something in his ear, but he couldn't understand what it was saying.

Something warm was slowly trickling down his forehead. He tried to wipe it away, but as he slowly managed to lift his arm, his assailant grabbed it and twisted it behind his back. This elicited another pained groan from Paul, which landed on deaf ears. Instead, whoever was dragging him along tried to force him to walk upright, making his surroundings spin.

Suddenly, in a moment of clarity, Paul realized what was happening. _He's going to kill me! No!_ A surge of adrenaline enabled him to kick his attacker in the knee, hard. To Paul's delight, the man grunted in pain and tripped, losing his grip on Paul. Paul scrambled away, desperately trying to regain his footing. Ignoring the blinding pain in his head, he finally managed to get to his feet and stumbled away from his assailant.

"Paul!"

Paul froze upon hearing his name. It sounded far away, but suddenly hope soared. "Help!" he managed to croak, but the small delay cost him his escape. A rumbling roar sounded from the floor, where Paul's enraged attacker launched himself at him. He grabbed Paul around the legs and Paul went down, striking his head on the floor. Black dots accompanied a searing pain, this time blotting out his entire vision as his body went completely limp.


	16. Stage Fright 16

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

**Stage Fright chapter sixteen**

A stinging pain penetrated the blackness. Paul McCartney groaned as his senses slowly returned to him and flinched when he first heard then felt a hand slap his cheek.

"Wake up!" a voice growled.

He hurt. Terribly. For a brief moment, he didn't know where he was or what had happened, but that was quickly remedied when he was roughly shaken by two harsh hands.

"Wake up, McCartney. You're not going to deny me the pleasure of seeing the fear in your eyes while I slowly choke the life out of you!"

Paul's eyes flew open once his brain had processed this news. His survival instinct kicking in, he found that the various aches and pains in his body were being pushed to the back of his mind, enabling him to try and do something about the heady situation he found himself him. He looked up and saw his assailant hovering over him, a smirk on his face.

"Ah, that's more like…-" the man started as he moved to pin his victim down, but he never got to finish his sentence.

Paul had drawn his legs up to his chest and kicked out with all the strength he could muster, catching his attacker square in the chest. Even though the man was about twice Paul's size, the force of the kick and the fact that it had been so unexpected sent him crashing into the opposite wall.

Paul scrambled up as fast as his body would allow and looked wildly around what appeared to be a large storage room, desperately looking for a door that would lead him to safety. He found it, but to his horror his attacker had moved right in front of it, cutting off his sole means of escape.

The man glared at Paul. "It would seem that I underestimated you, Mr McCartney," he spat. "That will not happen again."

Paul looked around for something – anything - he could use as a weapon, but all he could find were brooms and plastic stage props. They weren't exactly lethal weapons, but he grabbed one of the nearest brooms anyway.

To his surprise and irritation, the man opposite him burst into laughter. "What are you going to be doing with that? I'll snap that thing in two just as easily as I will snap you."

Paul felt his hands grow sweaty and his heart was pounding in his chest with fear. A memory came to him suddenly; a voice that had called his name right before he'd passed out. They were looking for him, his mates, the police, he didn't care much which. But he realized he needed to buy some time so they could find him. That's what the heroes in Ringo's favourite movies always did, and they usually lived happily ever after in the end.

What a pity this wasn't one of Ringo's movies, and that Paul was no hero.

"What the bloody hell do you want from me?" Paul shouted, hoping his voice sounded steady and at the same time trying to create enough noise for someone on the outside to hear.

"What I want from you? Why, revenge, of course," the man replied calmly.

Paul almost rolled his eyes as he stared at the man. Revenge? It was a common theme in Ringo's movies. He couldn't think of anything he'd done to anger this man to the point that he'd actually seek him out to get revenge.

Something nagged at him, and it took him only seconds to realize what it was: the man was speaking with an American accent. He was sure that, when he had impersonated officer Connelly, for Paul now assumed that that was not his real name, he had spoken in a British accent.

"Who are you?"

The man sneered, baring his teeth. As though he had read Paul's thoughts, he answered, "I used to work here as a concierge. That's right, I've lived here in Britain for a good number of years. How else do you suppose I can speak in a fluent British accent?" He started to close in on Paul. "When I heard that the famous Beatles were going to be playing here, I saw my chance."

"What the hell do you want revenge for? What have I ever done to you?!" Paul backed away until he felt his back press against the wall.

"Wouldn't you like to know," the man said, an odd grin on his face. "I'm afraid you'll never find out."

Paul could feel tiny drops of sweat forming on his forehead and resisted the urge to wipe them away. He could not afford to let his guard down. Something dawned on him. "You were the one who set off that firecracker, weren't you?" he asked, desperately grasping at every straw that might buy him some time.

It worked. For about ten seconds.

The man paused, a frown between his brows. "Well, no, actually, that was as much an unpleasant surprise for me as it was for you. Otherwise I would've grabbed you then and there." He grinned. "Enough chatting." With those words he threw himself at an unprepared Paul.

Paul barely had time to raise his broom in defence before the body of the man slammed into him. His already sore head hit the wall behind him; stars danced across his vision as he went down, a heavy weight instantly pinning him to the floor.

_Fight!_ His mind screamed. _Fight!_

He tightened his hold on the broom, knowing it was his only weapon, and blindly thrust one end of it upwards. An enraged growl told him he'd at least managed to hit his attacker. His brain registered blood spurting from the other's nose, and Paul felt a brief flash of satisfaction before the broom was yanked from his hands.  
Pain exploded in his jaw as it came into contact with a large and unyielding fist. He tasted blood in his mouth.

Hands closed around his neck.

"I'm going to kill you."

And right then, Paul wanted to cry. He was going to die here, horribly and alone. But tears didn't come. Instead, he struggled, clawing at the man's face, kicking and bucking.

The pressure around his neck increased, and no matter what he did, his vision darkened. His struggles lessened, having to concentrate more and more on gasping for breath.

"Stop…" The word was not much more than a ragged whisper to his own ears. "Please…"

The man ignored him.

Paul clawed at the man's hands, but he could feel his strength leaving him. He heard the blood rushing through his veins; it reminded him of the calming sounds of the sea, and he suddenly felt an odd sense of peace.

His vision greyed and turned to black, arms falling limply to his side, legs no longer kicking. He tried to draw one last breath, but his lungs refused to work. Or maybe his throat would not allow any air through. He didn't care anymore.

As awareness slipped away, he didn't care about anything anymore.

.

Hushed voices roused him, penetrating the oppressive darkness. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and there was a dull ache behind his eyes. Shifting slightly, he became aware of several aches and pains, but, to his relief, nothing too bad. Until he tried to swallow.

Christ, that hurt.

Then he figured he must've made some kind of pained sound, because suddenly someone was quietly calling his name, repeatedly. With a sigh, he slowly dragged his eyelids open, and immediately closed them against the harsh lights. Where the hell was he?

He tried again and this time he squinted heavily, but did not close his eyes again. Eyes slowly focused and he recognized a woman standing beside his bed. It took him a moment to realize it was actually a nurse, and not an angel. He must still be alive then.

Only then did his brain register that the nurse was talking to him, asking him how he was feeling.

"All right," he croaked, thinking he'd better reply.

"Are you back with us, Paul?"

Paul turned his head towards the male voice, and smiled ever so slightly. " 'lo, John," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

John grinned back at him. "We're gonna have to work on that voice, son."

Paul just nodded, his eyelids drooping. He was so tired. But he fought to open his eyes again, just in time to see the dark-haired nurse smiling gently at him. "It's all right, Mr McCartney. I will get the doctor to check on you. You just rest."

Paul simply nodded, closed his eyes and listened to the nurse leaving the room. Just before he drifted off, he felt someone gently pat his hand.

"Good lad, Macca," he heard John whisper before Paul fell into a dreamless sleep.


	17. Stage Fright Epilogue

_AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will. _

* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

**Stage Fright Epilogue **

"So who was that bloke who tried to murder me?"

Paul was sitting up in his hospital bed, feeling much more awake and alert than he had since the last time he'd been awake. The doctor had been by to tell him what was ailing him, and he'd been assured that the most serious injury he had sustained was a concussion. Of course, that didn't mean that he wasn't in pain; his headache, though lessened to a dull throb, was still there, his throat felt like it was on fire, and it was going to be a while before his voice was quite back to normal again. But all in all, he was feeling rather fortunate he'd come away with his body more or less intact.

As he looked from Neil to Brian, who were both standing at his bedside, he felt strangely calm, which was the exact opposite of how he'd been feeling the past few days. Or weeks.

"His name's Jordan Tanning," Neil replied to Paul's raspy question. "Ring any bells?"

Paul's eyebrows bunched together thoughtfully. "No," he said finally. "Should it?"

"His step-brother's name is Joshua Tanning. The guy who attacked you before."

At that, Paul's eyebrows shot up. "You're joking!"

Neil shook his head. "There's no way to know for sure why Jordan Tanning had it in for you, since he's dead, but we're-"

"Hang on," Paul interrupted, looking intently at Neil. "He's dead?"

"Yes, Paul," Brian spoke up. "When the police found out where he had taken you, it didn't take them long to break down the door, and they found him in the middle of- of strangling you." Brian was fiddling with the cuff of his suit jacket, and it was obvious to Paul that he was feeling very uncomfortable talking about this subject. "They shot him," Brian went on. "You were already unconscious by then."

Paul slowly took in that information and mulled it over. Could it finally all be over? God, he hoped so. But…what if some other blithering idiot decided they wanted to take down one of 'The Beatles', too?

"They're still not sure why that bastard went after you," Neil's quiet voice interrupted his thoughts, "but they reckon it's because he-"

"He wanted to avenge his brother," Paul said absently, staring into space. "When he had me cornered in that storage room he told me he was doing this because he wanted revenge, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out how he'd achieve in getting his revenge by killing me. I couldn't think of anything I might've done to him." He swallowed, his throat becoming increasingly sore. "I suppose it's quite obvious now, isn't it? He blamed me for getting his brother into prison. Fuckin' bastard."

After a moment of awkward silence, Neil patted his leg. "It'll be all right now, Paul. It's over." He glanced over at Brian, who nodded to him. "I'm gonna ring the lads to let 'em know how you're doing; we sent them home about an hour ago. Kickin' and screamin', of course," he added with a grin, before leaving the room.

Paul had to smile at the mental image of John, George and Ringo desperately clinging to his bedposts, screaming at the top of their lungs as Neil, Mal and hospital security tried to drag them away.

His attention was drawn back to Brian when he heard him nervously clear his throat. Paul looked up at him expectantly, noting the rather flustered look on his manager's face.

"Paul, I-" Brian stopped and took a breath, "I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for what happened. I should never have pressured you into touring again. This would not have happened if it weren't for me."

Paul blinked. The thought of blaming Brian had never even occurred to him, and he was utterly surprised to realize that Brian was obviously blaming himself. This was something he needed to set straight.

"Brian, don't be daft. The decision to start touring again was mine, and mine alone. Nobody could've foreseen what would happen, and at any rate, you couldn't have talked me into anything I didn't want to do no matter how hard you tried."

At that, Brian smiled slightly. "Thank you, Paul, but I still hold it against myself. If we had not found you in time- if we had lost you… I- I could not have lived with myself." He looked away quickly.

Brian said it so seriously that Paul did not doubt his words, and he shuddered at the implication. Thank God they had found him in time; if they hadn't, it might've cost them more than one life.

"I suppose if you insist on holding yourself responsible, there's nothing I can say to make you think otherwise. But I hope you'll be able to forgive yourself once you realize that nobody blames you for what happened. Least of all me." Paul paused for a moment, not feeling very comfortable talking about this sort of thing. "Christ, I need a smoke."

Brian actually laughed, something he rarely did these days. It effectively broke the tension between them, and Paul was grateful for it.

"I'm sorry, Paul, you know you're not allowed to smoke here," Brian began seriously, "and I don't believe smoking will do your voice any good-"

"Bri…" Paul said warningly.

Then Brian smiled at him, a wide, genuine smile he only reserved for 'his' boys. "I'll see what I can do," he said, giving Paul a conspiratorial wink. Then he grew serious again and glanced at his watch. "Right. I'm afraid I must leave; there are some things to be taken care of with the press. Your father phoned in; he'll be visiting later today. Oh, and a police detective will be by in a minute to take your statement." He leaned forward and gave Paul an awkward pat on the shoulder. "I'll come by again later."

With that, Paul was left alone, marvelling at how Brian had so easily slipped back into his manager role after having just laid bare his soul.

.

"Why do people do this?"

John Lennon looked up at his writing partner, who was still confined to his hospital bed, looking pale and depressed. The doctors had expressed a wish to keep Paul under observation for one more day, and Brian hadn't argued, even if Paul had. The latter was not enjoying his stay at all, but John had to admit it made him feel better that his friend was being properly looked after. At least for another day or so.

"Eh? What are you on about?"

Paul waved a hand at the bruises on his face and neck. The bruises were showing even more clearly now than they had the day before.

Catching on, John shrugged, setting aside the magazine he'd been reading. "Come on, Paul, you're not naïve. A crazy world has crazy people living in it. There are bound to be some crack-pots around ruining it for everybody-else. That's the way it's always been, and it's not about to change now."

Paul was silent, staring up at the ceiling, and John had a feeling that there was something else on his mind. He leaned forward, studying the bruises on the pale skin, the angry red marks in his neck where fingernails had dug into his flesh, the matted dark hair, and thinking it was a good thing the bloody bastard was already dead or he would've finished off the job himself. "What's the matter, Paul?"

Paul let out a long, tired sigh. A sigh that conveyed a multitude of emotions, ranging from anger to resignation to hopelessness, and John raised an eyebrow at his partner's moodiness.

"Why do we keep doin' this, Johnny?" Paul finally spoke, turning sad hazel eyes on John.

John blinked. He knew what Paul was referring to, but in all the years he'd known him, Paul had never expressed any doubts about touring or performing live in front of audiences. Not only had he not expressed them, he'd never even let on he had them in the first place. Not until recently, anyway. As far as he knew, Paul had always enjoyed the tours, as they all had. But where John, George and Ringo were sometimes overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of their popularity, Paul had always seemed to drink it in eagerly.

Of course it was only natural that Paul was having doubts now, considering what he'd been through, but something in the way Paul posed his question made John think there was more to it.

"Because we want to, Paul. Because _you_ want to."

Paul snorted sarcastically. "Well, if this is how every future tour is going to work out, I'd rather not do it anymore."

John frowned. Was Paul saying he wanted to stop touring? Or was he saying he didn't want to be a Beatle anymore? One thing was clear, attacked or not, this wasn't Paul McCartney he was talking to. Or at least, not the one he befriended many years ago. "What happened to all that shit about gettin' back on your horse after you fall?"

Paul shrugged, looking away. "What's the point of trying when your horse keeps running away from you?"

John shook his head, not believing what he was hearing. "Enough with the negativity, McCartney. It doesn't suit you. And you're daft if you think I'm going to believe you want to quit being a Beatle."

Paul turned back to him, eyes angry and hurt. "I didn't say I wanted to quit being a Beatle."

"You didn't have to. Your eyes are telling the story for you."

"Well, you must be overjoyed then, since you were starting to get fed up with being a Beatle long before all this shit happened."

John narrowed his eyes. "I think that knock you took on your head did more damage to your brain than we thought," he snapped, angry over what Paul was implying.

Paul glared at him, but remained silent.

John glowered back, then took a deep breath. Arguing with the lad was not going to get them anywhere. "Macca, I know you're afraid," he said more gently, "We all are. But I saw you up on that stage yesterday, and you were havin' the time of your life. You looked like you were high, like you were the happiest man alive. Making music and performing is what you live for, I'm not going to let you throw all that out the window."

Paul closed his eyes. "But I don't want to have to go through all this again, John," he said, the helplessness evident in his voice.

"You don't have to. We're not going to rush things this time. And I'm not saying you should go back to touring right after you're healed. I'm not saying you have to go back to touring at all. I just want you to give it time; you don't want to be rushing into things or you'll be regretting it for the rest of your life." He paused. "Now stop being such a cynic, or you'll turn into me and we wouldn't want two me's walking around without your eternal optimism to counteract my negativity, now would we?"

That surprised a laugh out of Paul, and John sat back in his chair, content that he'd managed to avert a crisis. For the moment, at least.

Paul opened one eye and looked at John critically. "When did you become so wise?"

John smirked. "I've always been wise. Genius, remember? They don't call me your leader for nothing."

"Our leader? Don't make me laugh, Lennon," a voice from the door said mockingly.

"Aye! Ring! Geo!" John exclaimed, looking over, and watching his two fellow band mates approach Paul's bed.

They both ignored him for favour of asking Paul how he was doing.

"Good, good," Paul replied, smiling, and he meant it.

"You're lookin' a bit pale," Ringo remarked casually, though the concern was evident in his eyes. "Has that git been mistreating you?" he said, nodding his head in John's direction.

"Aye? Me? Mistreating him? You wound me, sir!" John exclaimed, dramatically crossing his hands over his heart, and they all laughed. Including Paul.

To Paul it felt good to be with the four of them again, for once without the tension and fear that had been clinging to each of them over the past few weeks. Watching his mates larking about eased his own lingering fear. He hated to admit it, but John was right; there would always be mad people who had it in for others. Living a life without doing the things he loved to do for fear of getting hurt or killed was really no life at all.

"Okay, Paul?" George, who had obviously noticed his unusual quietness, was watching him.

Paul looked up at him, at all three of his mates, and grinned. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm all right."

"You scared us, lad," Ringo said seriously, obviously referring to Paul almost getting himself killed only the day before.

"I know, Ritchie. But I'm all right now."

"You know," George began uncertainly, clearly unsure of how to breach the subject, "Brian has arranged counselling for you."

"For all of us, really," Ringo added.

Paul made a face, though he knew he was probably going to need the counselling. He would undoubtedly be plagued by nightmares again for some time and he realized now that he would not be able to deal with them on his own. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

"And we're not going to be doing any shows or tours or whatever until we all feel comfortable with the idea again," John said.

Paul nodded. "Have you told Brian?"

"He was the one who suggested it," Ringo replied.

Paul nodded again. Even though it meant Brian was taking his guilt seriously, Paul was glad that he was taking their personal feelings into account this time.

John leaned forward and waited until Paul met his gaze. "We're in this together, aye, Paul?"

Paul nodded once again, secretly moved by how much they were willing to do to help him get through this; John especially was not a fan of therapists. He didn't like them sifting through his mind, pinning all kinds of psychological stigmas on him. But the fact that John was willing to subject himself to one of those 'quacks', as he liked to call them, spoke volumes to Paul.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat. Odd how nearly getting killed tends to make one more emotional about things, he reflected. He gingerly cleared his throat. "Anybody got a ciggie?"

John, George and Ringo exchanged glances and then broke into grins; all was well again with the world.

Well, nearly.

_The end_


End file.
